


Bonded and Bondage

by BySpaceByTime, TheIceDragons



Series: A Song of Space and Time [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Women, Bigotry & Prejudice, Characters of color, Child Death, Daeron III Targaryen - Freeform, Dothraki, Essos, Exile, F/M, Female Character of Color, Female Drogo, Female Jon Snow, Forced Marriage, Genderbending, Gladiators, Grey, Kidnapping, Male Daenerys, Male Daenerys Targaryen, Male Ygritte, Minor Original Character(s), Misogyny, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Male Characters - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Prophecy, R Plus L Equals J, Rule 63, Sad, Slavery, TOMBOYISH, Warging, Wildling Culture & Customs, Wildlings - Freeform, Young, ambitious, and words, angry, complex, direwolves, feminine, girly, more characters will be added, motherly, old, supporting each other, women who fight with swords, women who make mistakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-07-12 04:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 80,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15987335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BySpaceByTime/pseuds/BySpaceByTime, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIceDragons/pseuds/TheIceDragons
Summary: Joan’s siblings held the surname of their forbearers. The First Men, the Kings of Winter, who ruled and owned the lands of the north for thousands of years. But while they held the name of those who ruled the north, her name was the very embodiment of the north.The endless flat fields hardened by ice. The mountains that laid on the horizon and the northern lights that flowed in the sky like gently rushing rivers. The Wolfswood in which the lords of the north hunted for prey, the Godswood in which they prayed. The nameless gods whom sought no favor and gave none in return. The Wall that protected the realms of men from wildling invaders and before that the monsters from legend. That’s what Old Nan always told her, on the days when she felt particularly low and melancholy. Well, more low and melancholy than she usually feels.Joan Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, they whispered. But it held none of the glory Old Nan endowed to it. Instead, it was whispered with either pity or veiled contempt. Snow, it was a name she was supposed to carry shamefully not proudly, and rightfully so. Who would want to be a bastard? Who wanted to love and marry and care for a bastard?





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheIceDragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIceDragons/gifts).



> Update: This is a prequel to TheIceDragons work "The Death of Duty; The Bane of Honor", and my take on fem Jon and now Male Daenerys. I hope you guys like it, and I'd appreciate if you leave comments to give me feedback or (polite) constructive criticism.

 

_**Prologue** _

 

**Joan**

 

They say she was born in Dorne, that her mother may very well have been some camp follower or tavern wench. Though the most daring whisper of Ashara Dayne.

 

She pictures a woman with depthful indigo eyes. The same eyes father lost himself in as he sired Joan. She pictures dusky wavy hair, as dusky as the northern sky during nightfall, falling down to a slender waist. A woman who’d been dark and lovely, enough to make Joan’s honorable lord father stain said honor.

 

Though those are only rumors, and Joan doesn't put much stock in them. But when she’s feeling more than a little desperate to place a name to the foggy image, to the anonymous figure, she pictures the Lady Dayne and thinks mother. Right before her mother flings herself from her tower and into the rocky cliffs and rushing sea.

 

They say she was born in Dorne, where sandstorms and the hot red dunes lay waste to men instead of tundras of snow. But Snow is the name she takes, not Sand, for she is her father’s daughter through and through. The Snow of Winterfell.

 

Everyone says so, albeit out of range of Lady Stark’s ear-at least the friendly ones do- for her face is pale and long, hair dark brown in the rare sunlight, eyes grey and solemn. Solemn as if she’s already resigned herself to the fate of a bastard girl. For she was born into a world where the realms disregarded both.

 

She doesn't quite remember when she first realized she was a bastard or when the implications of the term settled in. Perhaps it had been when Sansa was born when she noticed how differently everyone treated her little sister in contrast to herself.

 

Plain woolen dresses dyed brown and black instead of the elaborate colorful suave and cotton her little sister was afforded. A chamber filled with gifts and toys of all kind from loyal bannerman who wished to send the Stark’s their regards for birthing a true-born daughter, an eligible one their lordly sons can marry when flowered. The way the servants all doted on Sansa, with her vibrant blue eyes and auburn hair. They speak of the beauty she’ll become, of how fortunate she is for inheriting her mother’s looks. They’d never said the same for Robb, for all that he donned the same features as well ( most say that it’d be best if Joan and Robb traded in looks. Most say that she shouldn't have a look, to begin with, shouldn't exist at all. Though she pretends not to hear them despite how blatant they are.) and they most certainly never said the same for Joan. _Almost like a boy that one, and not a pretty boy either,_ she’d heard one of the noble girls whisper once, right before laughing.

 

And when Sansa turns three namedays a Septa is brought to Winterfell, specially chosen to teach her womanly arts. Her little sister learns how to sew and sing and play instruments. Learns how to read from the Seven Pointed Star and copy down poetry word for word to perfect her script. Joan isn't afforded these lessons, for she’ll have no use of them. _Lady Catelyn will not have me sully her daughter’s lessons._

 

Instead, Old Nan takes the bastard girl under her wing, and teaches her how to knit scarfs and gloves, teaches her how to cook and clean in Winterfell’s kitchens and make sure she knows the ways of bobbin lace, like every other northern girl, both noble and low born.

 

Though Joan yearned to learn an instrument, any instrument, told everyone who cared to hear as much. If she couldn't recite poetry or learn fine southern embroidery, she could at least learn an instrument.

 

Her father must have felt guilty, must have sensed the envy slowly budding in his natural daughter's chest, because upon hearing her request, he instructed the old Septa to teach her an instrument. Joan had earned Lady Stark’s ire for that, and instead of shunning the bastard during supper she’d picked up the habit of throwing passing glares at the girl.

Joan had chosen from the flute, lute, bells, and harp. Sampling each one, the High Harp feeling most natural in her hands. It was then that she learned her father didn't have the heart to deny her anything, all she need do is ask. Though she didn't dare ask him to make her a Stark, to make her his true daughter.

 

She practiced early in the day and late into the night, plucking at an imaginary harp whilst breaking fast and humming all the songs she could play while falling to sleep. The Bear and the Maiden Fair, The Burning of the Ships and The Voice, an old and ancient hymn for the Old Gods.

 

The High Harp was sweet and womanly for all that each time she plucked a note it made a skewed sound, and her voice wasn't strong or well practiced. At least that’s what Septa Mordane tells her, right before sending her away so the girls can continue with the rest of their lessons of proper etiquette and posture.

 

But six-year-old Joan was determined, eager. She’d make father beam fondly, and the servant girls gush over her raw talent. She’d try twice as hard than the noble girls that sat in Sansa’s sewing circle, and she’d be better at it than any of them.

 

Soon she began to apply that thinking to everything. She’d be better at Robb than riding, reading, and writing, with doing sums and remembering her letters. Working twice as hard to receive half the praise. Lady Stark liked her less for it.

* * *

 

Joan and Robb used to be as thick as thieves. One could simply not be without the other in play and mischief. Even baby Sansa tagged along sometimes, making both her older siblings soften to the new arrival. It seemed Joan had not been the only one flooded with envy at all the attention thrown upon the newest addition.

 

But it mattered not when they made snow angels and tall snowmen or when they played Florian and Jonquil, Thieves and Knights, and hide and seek in the Godswood. Winterfell’s halls had begun to be filled with childish laughter of every sort, and even Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole could forget Joan’s bastardy in the height of play.

 

“I’m Aemon the Dragonknight!” Robb would call out cheerfully with a stick in hand, waving it about as if it were a sword.

 

“Well, I’m Visenya Targaryen the Dragon Queen!” Joan would call back, grabbing a ‘sword’ of her own.

 

The two would fall into a mummers duel while the others stood by cheering them on.

 

But one day Joan had made the grave mistake of calling herself the Lady of Winterfell. She hadn't thought about it before she said it, the words just spilled forth. All had fallen silent, even Robb.

 

And then he said, “You can’t be the Lady of Winterfell Joan, you’re a bastard.” as if she hadn't already known, as if she wasn't reminded every day. Robb of all the people should have known that. He was witness to the way everyone treated her, the way his mother treated her with her cold looks and chilly disregard and claimed to hate it just as much as Joan did when he found her crying herself into a corner.

 

It was all silent for a moment, before Beth and Jeyne began to laugh, along with the rest of the children of Winterfell. Laughed and laughed as if they’d been privy to the funniest jest.

 

A look of shame and pity had dawned on Robb’s face, apologies stirring at the lip, while horror and embarrassment dawned on hers, tears welling in her eyes. She wouldn't cry in front of them, wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing a tear fall, but she did run away. Ran as far as her feet could take her until she was in their presence no longer. Like a craven, and she hated herself a little more for it.

 

Bastard. Why did the gods curse her so? If Robb had been so quick to speak that, to think that, what else did he hold back from saying? What else did he think of his bastard sister?

 

Something painful had twisted in her chest then, bitter and resentful, internally loath with everything that made her so. She’d cried angry tears, and they spilled hotly down her face. Joan’s face had never been so red, eyes never as bright as they were when they held indignation or glistened with shame.

 

Should have never said that in the first place, the fool she had been for doing so anyway. For feeling free and without worry, unguarded and secure with her playmates. She would always be a bastard in their eyes, no matter how much fun they had together.

 

Oh, how she hated being her. Hated being a bastard. _You did the right thing, Robb,_ she could hear them saying, _putting her in her place. It’s best bastards don’t forget._

 

It would be weeks before she talked to Robb again, avoiding the sincerely apologetic boy like greyscale. Even then there was a tight strain between the two, a gaping wound that refused to heal, that would only sit and fester and decay for years to come.

 

Then in 287 A.C. Balon Greyjoy declared himself king of the Iron Island’s, and father left them all simmering in trepidation and worry. And Lady Stark was with child, her belly growing swollen and plump by the day, as she hobbled in discomfort. _A fighter this one will be,_ Maester Luwin claimed fondly whenever Lady Stark complained about her cramps, kicks, and nausea.

 

When the war was over, father returned with a ward, Lord Greyjoy’s remaining heir and Lady Stark greeted father with a daughter. Dark of hair and grey of eye with a furious temper. Her cry was something terrible to hear. When father brought his natural daughter along to see the babe, she’d quintet at the sight of Joan. An uncanny thing. Her big grey eyes, lighter than Joan’s own, had studied the bastard girl, reaching for dark tendrils to pull on.

After that Joan had taken place within the nursery, her practice harp in hand whenever baby Arya fell into tantrum, ready to play it for her. She read stories and made funny faces to elicit giggles. Lady Stark protested but Lord Stark wouldn't deny her this little sister, for Sansa, was like a realm Joan couldn't quite reach no matter how hard she tried. But Arya was there, and Arya smiled at her and made gurgling noises whenever she came near and clapped when Joan sang as if it had been the best thing she’d ever heard. And best of all Arya looked like her. Yes her little sister’s hair was finer and a lighter shade of brown, and her eyes were a light grey like their fathers, but they both shared the look, the Stark look. And only them. Two unconventional sisters, who the servants never doted on because of their long faces and pale skin and common coloring.

Robb had gained a new friend as well, finding it in the Greyjoy boy. He’s quiet at first, shy even, but Robb manages to bring him out of the tight shell the iron islander confined himself in. After that, Theon takes the place that Joan left cold, becoming Robb’s companion in everything. And oh how she regrets not taking the peace offering Robb had continuously given her, but it was too late. She was a girl, while Theon was a boy, an older one at that. The brother Robb never had. Theon could do things that Joan couldn't do, could tell him things that Joan had no knowledge of. Could drink ale, leer at girls, and wrestle like a man grown.

By virtue of being the same age, Joan still took lessons with Robb, but not on the same subjects as Robb. Her’s was a simple education. High sums and advanced letters, basic geography of the kingdoms, so on and so forth. But it was Theon and Robb father took while visiting bannerman, who sat at her father’s side while he held court and went over negotiations, the only two who learned of war strategy and tactics. The only two who were allowed to train at arms. The only ones who witnessed the king's justice.

 

The two took lessons together, rode together and trained together. And Joan? Bitter bitter Joan?

 

Pushed aside like a forgotten toy, yet again.

 

She and Robb had been close once when her being a bastard and a girl hadn't truly mattered. But those days were far behind them.

 

It didn't help that Theon was an arse. Even when Robb decided he wanted her to tag along the hostage always had something to say about it, to the point she just avoided the two altogether.

 

 _She’ll get us caught!_ He says as they ready to push a heap of snow on the visiting watchman. _She’s to slow she’ll fall behind,_ he says as they run away from the scene, and she is faster than both of them put together.

 

 _She can’t race with us! She’s a girl, girls don’t ride fast!_ And Joan may be slower than Robb whilst riding her pony but she’s faster than Theon will ever be. The Iron Islands don’t have the luxury of horses, and that’s the one thing she has against him. Enough to wipe that stupid proud smirk off his face.

 

Tsk, bastard, he whispers beneath his breath during moments like those.

 

He never addresses her, barely looks at her because she’s not worth addressing directly. She’s not even there to him, little more than a shadow Robb can’t shake, but he talks about her. He talks about her a lot, and Robb only stands there silently, whether in agreeance or discomfort is unbeknownst to her. But when her brother doesn't seek her out for days on end or leaves her behind after the hostage's rant, sometimes she thinks her brother feels both. That he agrees and feels uncomfortable about agreeing.

 

Maybe he’s angry at her still, for rejecting his apologies, and she’d refused to bring up anything pertaining to that day again, leaving the issue unresolved. So it only makes sense that he’d push her away, for she did it to him when father was still away and Arya was just born.

  
Joan seeks out Arya more and more often, and it becomes easier when Lady Stark falls pregnant once again. Even better when Arya grows older and has to attend Septa Mordane’s lessons. Of course, Joan only gets to see her for a small part of the lesson before being sent away but it is still fun.

 

They play, laugh and eat sweets Joan sneaks from the kitchen after finishing her chores with Old Nan. Sansa sits with them sometimes, basking in the few lemon cakes Joan snuck out. They sing songs while Joan plays on the High Harp, her voice a little more practiced and the notes a little well struck according to Septa Mordane. Of course, she says Sansa is better at it, and that Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel are a close second and third. They barely practice their instruments outside of lessons, barely memorize the songs they don’t care to hear. All of which are simple and easy to play, and even they mess those up. Jeyne butchers her lute when she plays, and her voice sounds like a dying mule when she tries to hit high notes and while Beth Cassel is good at her bells she isn't great.

 

But like always, Joan is run of the mill, at the very bottom of everyone else. No matter how hard she tries or how good she truly is, they will always be deemed better than her. They have to be better than her even if they aren't. What does it say of them if a bastard girl outdoes them?

 

Jeyne looks down her nose at her when Septa Mordane speaks thusly and Beth wears a haughty smirk before whispering in Sansa’s ear. Then Alayne Woodenly joins in, then Cissy and Lara and the rest of them. Condescending and cruel just for the sake of it. Only Arya is her true friend, her one companion, and it isn't long before they start whispering about her too. About her long face, horse face they whisper.

 

Joan isn't there when that happens but Arya runs to tells her about it, tears in her eyes. They make fun of her crooked stitches and her rough voice and lack of talent with any instruments. Worst of all, she says Sansa joins them, laughing away.

 

They don’t like the fact that her braids are always undone and mussed about, or that her knees and elbows are scraped and her dresses end up dirty after riding her pony and rolling in the dirt with the boys.

 

“Am I a bastard to Jo?” that stings at first, until she remembers it’s Arya speaking and sees those hurt confused eyes. Joan knew those eyes very well, for she looked upon them in her looking glass every night. “Sansa thinks that I’m not her real sister, that the real one got misplaced. She thinks that I’m a bastard, like you, because we look alike. Because we're both ugly.”

 

“People say I look like Aunt Lyanna all the time.” she reasons, swallowing down her anger. In truth, she only heard it once, but it wasn't a far stretch to assume everyone thought it. “And Aunt Lyanna was the most beautiful woman of her time, so beautiful the realms went to war for her. If I look like her, and you look like me, then that means we’re beautiful.” It was a horrible explanation but one that soothed her little sisters ache, one that makes her smile gleefully.

 

Joan’s went to her aunt’s tomb a handful of times and saw nothing more than a cold statue, a frozen girl gone before her time. But how could anyone think Arya ugly after seeing such a smile? “You think I’m beautiful Jo?”

“Of course little sister.” she smiled back tenderly, a warmth blossoming in her chest, strange but not unpleasant.

* * *

 

As they grow older the strain between her and Robb broadens, until one day father insists upon her learning archery if nothing else, and she is forced beside her brother almost every day because of father’s insistence. She knows why. Everyone does. Joan had never heard much of Lord Bolton until she bordered on two and ten. The lord had proposed an offer of a betrothal, not between her and his trueborn son or rumored bastard son, but between her and himself. A man old enough to be her father. It wasn't a rare thing of course for young maidens to marry lords thrice their age, such matches were common even. Perhaps she would have been content with such a match if it weren’t for the rumors surrounding the lord. Leech Lord, the servants called him, for the leeches he used when ill. Pale eyes and pasty skin, so eerie it unsettled the soul is what the whispers claimed. They say he still practices the traditions of his ancestors. The flayin’ of men, and hangs the skins in the dungeons of the Dreadfort, an old serving woman named Milly tells her, and she nearly faints at the thought of marrying such a man.

 

With much relief, father promptly refuses. Perhaps reasoning that she has not yet flowered.

 

People don’t seem to mind a girl wielding a bow as much as they mind a girl wielding a sword. And maybe that’s why Theon seems to hate her more for it because where he lacks in sword fighting he makes up for with archery. The implications of archery being a woman's best chance at using a weapon must insult him to some degree, especially when she’s forced to train beside him. But for the first time in a long time, Robb doesn't seem to mind and helps her when he’s able, giving her tips on how to hold her bow arm, to place the tail of the arrow at cheek length.

 

The mending is slow at first, but soon they become close again. Not as close as they used to be, for scars never truly fade, but close enough. Joan had not realized how much she missed him until then.

 

Of course, this only alienates her more to Sansa. Because there are no bastards in the fairytales, let alone maidens who wield weapons of war. At least Arya is pleased with her older sister, trying to find a way to convince father to let her partake in the lessons as well.

 

Snow. For as long as she could remember that was the name everyone referred to her as. Snow like the kind that confined everyone to the keep when it rose to the second story windows. Snow like the white sheets that covered the ground and cloaked the turrets and trees.

 

Joan’s siblings held the surname of their forbearers. The First Men, the Kings of Winter, who ruled and owned the lands of the north for thousands of years. But while they held the name of those who ruled the north, her name was the very embodiment of the north.

 

The endless flat fields hardened by ice. The mountains that laid on the horizon and the northern lights that flowed in the sky like gently rushing rivers. The Wolfswood in which the lords of the north hunted for prey, the Godswood in which they prayed. The nameless gods whom sought no favor and gave none in return.The Wall that protected the realms of men from wildling invaders and before that the monsters from legend. That’s what Old Nan always told her, on the days when she felt particularly low and melancholy. Well, more low and melancholy than she usually feels.

 

Joan Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, they whispered. But it held none of the glory Old Nan endowed to it. Instead, it was whispered with either pity or veiled contempt. Snow, it was a name she was supposed to carry shamefully not proudly, and rightfully so. Who would want to be a bastard? Who wanted to love and marry and care for a bastard?

 

That’s what she thinks when she finally does flower after reaching twelve name days.

 

Joan never thought herself particularly pretty, despite how much father and Old Nan told her otherwise. She had the long Stark face with eyes so grey they looked black and long dark hair that seemed to swallow her whole. She had been little more than skin and bones during her childhood, but she’s a woman flowered now. According to Lady Stark and Old Nan, the two finally coming to an agreeance on something that pertained to Joan.

 

It had happened on a full moon, after a long day of lessons. That night she tossed and turned in her bed, the piles of fur adding to her excessive warmth and discomfort. When she awoke it was too bloodied sheets and a sweat-soaked gown. A woman flowered.

  
  
Earlier that day Theon had been giving her those strange looks _again_ , being his usually horrible, snide and arrogant self. On top of that, her stomach had churned and cramped up leaving her in a terrible brooding mood. Not even children’s laughter or Nan’s frightful tales could draw her from it. And despite Robb’s attempts, he couldn't make the girl smile if his life depended on it.

 

Robb whose been sneaking into Wintertown with Theon, secretly visiting the brothels. She doesn't know how to feel about that or if she should. Who was she to judge, she the bastard? But she couldn't help but wonder if her father had had that same wild abandon when he sired her.

 

Old Nan tells her it is all natures will, that girls are expected to bleed one way or another, but Joan couldn't help but think the gods were being a little unfair. _We must bleed in youth, in marriage, and in birth. It’s all very unfair._

 

Men seem to have it easier, and she wonders if she’d been born a bastard boy instead of girl would her life have turned out differently.

 

Joan grows used to the staring directed her way whenever she steps through the Great Hall or goes for a ride, and after a while, they slowly abate, becoming less and less frequent once they remember which daughter they stare at, bastard or not. All except Theon of course. Joan flowers and suddenly she’s visible to him, and he is keen on regarding her.

 

Old Nan only teases her when she tells the older woman about it. “Mayhaps it is your hips that catches his eye?”

 

“What hips?”

 

“Oh don’t be daft Jo. You're flowered now, and flowers grow. You’re filling out, best be careful. Men are like dogs, and once they get a whiff of fresh meat they’ll hound you.” but Joan doesn't want to grow, doesn't want to fill out, is content on staying in her girlish-or boyish depending on who says it- body.

 

Much to Joan’s displeasure, Old Nan is right in the end, because soon after flowering her chest starts to ache more often than it used to, and tender mounds of flesh rise on her chest like baking dough. Pads of fat lather in her thighs, making them jiggle when she walks and little by little her narrow hips grow wider, and Theon gives her a toothy grin whenever she passes through the training yard in her riding breeches. _A little after flowering, the plump girls are known to slim down while the skinny girls fill out_ , she thinks she read that somewhere, in one of those tomes on female anatomy. It all made her skin crawl.

 

The hair that grew between her legs was more noticeable than before, and she suddenly realized that it was there, to begin with, has been there for the past few years before she flowered.

 

It’s an awkward and antsy process, one that makes her uncomfortable with the figure her body molds around her bones. Joan loathes every moment of it, dreads it.

 

Puberty seems to favor Robb, who marvels at the little hairs that sprout on his chest and the makings of a mustache above his lips. He starts to fill out his broad shoulders, stocky and tall like their father. Like a Northman.

 

Meanwhile, Jo has to stuff cotton wrapped wool cloths between her legs, dealing with her forever changing body and mood swings.

 

And now she has to sit here in the room that housed Septa Mordane’s lessons. Just her, Septa Mordane, Old Nan and of all the people Lady Catelyn.

 

“...and with the marriage, comes childbed.” the words were thin and wiry as they came from Lady Stark’s pursed lips.

 

“Men handle their battles on the field, but you’ll find most women handle theirs in the bed.” Old Nan finished with a sure nod before Septa cheerfully added on:

“Lucky for you, your hips are growing exceptionally well for such a slight girl!” she tapped Jo’s pudgy thigh, and the girl tried not to grimace. There was nothing to like about her awkward body, not when everything felt so uneven. “What more can a husband ask for than numerous children? And gods be willing sons above all else. Lady Stark was blessed by the Seven when they saw fit to give her a son on the first try. A firstborn son, an heir for Lord Stark.” _I get it, no need to flesh it out!_ She wishes to shout but dutifully keeps her lips sealed instead.

 

Joan had never been in a more uncomfortable situation, as they tell her about the goings of the marriage bed and childbirth, her maidenhead and her prospects for marriage. They say that during the bedding she has to lay still on her back while her husband claims what is rightfully his by the will of gods and men until he spills his seed into her womb. That she will have to do it whenever her husband sees fit, every night if need be until a seed quickened. They say that bleeding is normal and pain is common for the first time, but they never speak of the times after.

 

Septa Mordane is pushing for her to preserve her virtue and join the Faith in lieu of marriage while Old Nan wishes the woman would leave Jo be. That was something she and the elderly woman both agreed on. And Lady Stark?

 

As cold as ever. Cynical, curt and straightforward with no amount of warmth. Not that Joan was surprised about _‘that’_. At least _‘that’_ hadn't rubbed off on Arya. Or her little brother Bran and baby Rickon, at least not yet. Sansa was the most influenced by her mother’s behavior, becoming more and more withdrawn, but every now and again she comes around to tag along with Jo and Arya.

 

Besides, Joan doesn't fault the woman for her coolness, she’s her husband's bastard and the woman has tolerated her presence for so long.

 

“Mayhaps my lord husband will find a suitable match for you. The best you can hope for is a second or third son from minor nobility, at the worst a blacksmith or stable master but still good for a bastard if not a noble one,” the word bastard rolled off her tongue like a curse.

 

Joan tries not to let the woman’s words wound her. She knows she doesn't have the marriage prospects Sansa and Arya will be afforded. Their father's noble bannerman, loyal and true, or southern lords past the Neck. They’d all vie for Sansa’s hand, sweet and noble and ever the lady, and if they didn't strike as lucky they’d try with the second one. They’d have more luck courting a stubborn mule than Arya but still. Joan wasn't good enough for their attention, didn't deserve to be in their honorable presence, and they’d never think about marrying someone like her. Unworthy, her mind whispered. Not as precious or valuable.

 

They would still leer of course, like all men are wont to do, whether the woman is a lady, bastard or whore. But being slightly pretty, with ‘birthing’ hips and noble blood would do no wonders for her marriage prospects.

 

Maybe that’s a good thing. Joan hasn't really cared for marriage up until now, and she won't care years after when she’s grey and wrinkled with the surname Snow. She’s her father’s daughter, his blood as he is wont to say.

 

But to have the name Stark, if only for a little while before her husband sheds her maiden cloak and replaces it with his own, she thinks she wouldn't mind marriage.

* * *

 

**Catelyn**

  
Six moons after the girls first moonblood she falls ill. Her body burns hot with fever, rendering her bedridden and unconscious. Tis was no meager head cold or a slight cough, the exaggeration of the two if nothing else.

 

The girl spent her days in a delirious state, shivering despite all the covers that were layered upon her, despite the fact that her skin was that of molten rock.

 

Catelyn had opened the curtains and the window, letting the summer light and fresh air pool inside the room. Hopefully, the sickness would air out in the process. Maester Luwin had no explanation as to why the girl had suddenly fallen sick. One day she was completely fine and then the next her head was burning hot with fever.

 

The girl looked so pale and clammy, and in this light, she wasn't her husband's bastard. Just a child slowly dying, barely grown. It was easier to vilify her when Catelyn wasn’t subjected to staring at her for too long.

 

She had wished for this, had wanted it, prayed for it in the little sept Ned made for her. She prayed to the Stranger, begging, pleading for the girl to just go away. Forever. How would her lord husband feel if he knew she was the cause of his present woe? Robb wept for his half-sister, angry at himself for reasons unknown to his mother. And Arya, oh Arya. How she yearned to see her half-sister, but both Catelyn and Ned had forbidden it, lest her child contract whatever the girls fallen with.

Guilt consumed her. _This is what I wanted._ She grabbed the cloth from a nearby basin, wiping the thick sheen of sweat on the girl's brow clean. _Now, this is my penance._

 

It was Lord Bolton’s fault in truth. He had planted the seed of fear and jealousy the moment that raven flew to Winterfell, carrying offers of marriage. What could a man like that possibly want with a bastard? The second most powerful lord in the North? The Boltons were known for treachery, and so were bastards. Such a match was destined for disaster. It was something that could not be risked. Only Ned’s wariness of the lord prevented him from accepting the offer, but what if another old high lord decided to propose a betrothal? Or what if Roose Bolton tried again now that the girl was flowered?

 

Ned’s men are loyal, she’d reasoned with herself. Every passing thought had been of possible treasons before she conceded with her better judgment. It was only Lord Bolton, none else.

 

But then Lord Umber offered a match between the girl and his son and heir, then Karstark between either his second son or lord brother, then Howland Reed offered his son and heir as well. Little offers started to trickle in, not that her Ned paid any true mind to them (he wasn't quite ready to give up any of his children), but she did.

 

She knew the girl had no true chance of usurping her family, knew that Robb’s children would be safe regardless of the get the girl popped out. There was no reason to fear and yet she did, no reason to loathe the idea of finally ridding herself of the bastards presence, and yet she did.

 

It all came from a place of jealousy and bitterness, hatred and pettiness. Not for the girl herself but more for the woman Ned sired the girl with.

 

What if the bastard was married first? The first to wed out of Ned’s children, the first daughter Ned walked down the aisle to offer before gods and men. A Stark maiden's cloak draped over her shoulders, Catelyn cringed at the thought as she lightly poured honey and water down the girl's throat. What if Ned’s first grandchild was from the bastard? Those right’s belonged to Catelyn's children, not her child, whoever the woman was. Whoever this woman was, she left little of herself in the girl. There was no doubt in who fathered the girl, nothing blatant that would prove otherwise. That made it worse.

 

It was thoughts like that that provoked her to pray for the girl's demise, all petty and horrible. _What kind of woman am I?_

 

If the girl didn't wake up by nightfall, Maetser Luwin proclaimed with utmost certainty she would be dead come morn. _It’s all I ever wanted, and now I rue the very thought._

  
  
Catelyn surprised everyone with her sudden devotion to staying by the girl's bedside, but none more than herself. Weaving prayer net after prayer net, spending sleepless nights in constant prayer amidst her sept. _Please bring her back._ She begged, gripping the girl's limp hand. _And I’ll make sure Ned gives her the Stark name right before she marries. She’ll be a Stark if only for a moment. Then she’ll be away from the likes of me, with a lord husband and children will follow after._ She had to make herself want this for the girl, had to believe it would all come to pass. She felt like a child wishing helplessly on a shooting star.

 

“Cat?” the sound of her husband's voice made her let the child’s hand go. When had he come in?

 

She was too ashamed to look at him, afraid if he caught the slightest glimpse of the guilt that panged her eyes he would know it was her who condemned the girl. His blood, he always says.

 

He came to her side, pulling up a chair to sit at the bedside. Her Ned looked tired and somber, his grey eyes hopeless.

 

“Has she stirred? Even a little?” he raspily inquired.

 

Cat shook her head, red strands falling to her face. The child looked regal almost, like a beautiful corpse. A haunting beauty put under a spell, waiting for her knight to kiss her awake. Ned grabbed the girls hand, planting a chaste kiss upon it, she didn't wake, however. Only drawn sickly breaths, perhaps even shivered.

 

Ned shifted in his seat, turning toward his wife, placing a warm hand upon her thigh. “Thank you, Cat. For taking care of her. The gods know if I didn't have so many duties, I would be in your place. I know you’ve never warmed to her before but…” he closed his eyes, as if in pain, before opening them again. It was hard not to avert her gaze, to strain away from his line of sight. Ned looked at one in a way that compelled you to look back, friend or foe. “Thank you.”. Her Ned was so honest, so sincere, in very few words. Would that she had the grace to be as true as he at this moment.

 

“I’ll do what I can Ned, until the end.” she grimaced at that. It made it sound as if she expected the girl to die. “She-I’m sure she’ll be fine.” She needs the girl to live. Or else she’ll live the rest of her days in guilt. She would never be able to look at her husband, at her youngest daughter, and not think of those dark sullen eyes she prayed lifeless.

 

Had she been a better woman, a better person...no. Had Ned just told her who the girl's mother was she would have been able to put those feelings to rest. But instead, he protects the woman’s identity as if his very life depends on it, loyal and true to this woman even while he is married to Catelyn. So many secrets, it wasn't good to have secrets in a marriage, and Ned had started early on. It created something ugly in Catelyn, something her mind secretly loathe but her heart held onto. To be angry and spiteful, petty and jealous. The young girl she had been would have never thought to live so bitterly, but the woman she’d grown into forced her to be that way. Ned forced her to be that way, and she is damned if she felt guilty for the rest of her life for doing something he pushed her to do.

 

“Who is she?” the words spilled forth before she could halt them at the tongue. “The mother, I mean. Who is she?” she studied the girl's face and found no trace of anything less than Stark. Perhaps her coloring was darker and her features softer, but it was all the same. Ned, Arya, and the girl were a clique of their own, all donning the Stark look. Ned gave in to anything the bastard wanted, and Arya followed after the girl like a shadow. It would almost be funny if the girl were her own child. She could have been Cat’s, in the very beginning before everything became so hostile, had Ned not been so stubborn. Catelyn had not had a daughter at the time, and sons always belonged to their father’s. To claim this woman’s daughter for her own would have given her a sense of triumph she knows, and perhaps down the line, she would have grown to love the girl.

 

Her husband went frigid and cold. Oh, how quick his mood changed whenever she brought up the anonymous woman. “Please, not now.” not ever, he really means.

 

“Yes now.”

 

“No, Catelyn. Why does it suddenly matter to you again? It is not your concern.” his voice was as cool as the winter wind. The last time he spoke to her with such a tone, was the last time she asked about the girl's mother. He had been wroth as he was now.

 

“I deserve to know Ned!” she shouted.

 

“Why! I thought we were to never bring this up again.” he rose from his seat, readying himself to leave.

 

Catelyn scoffed. She never agreed to that.

 

“Because I need to know! I deserve to know! This secret that you've kept so close to your heart has driven me to do this!” she pointed at the unconscious girl, and watched as he went rigid. “Has driven me to hate a child!”

 

He looked disturbed and conflicted, and she’d wished she kept her mouth shut. _He must think me a monster._ But no, he made her this way.

 

“Please tell me I am not to presume what you are insinuating?” just saying it out loud seemed to make him weaker.

 

“No, I used no poisons, my lord. Only prayer. I prayed for this, I prayed to the gods that she’d die. Because I don’t want her to get married, I don’t want her to have the name Stark or watch as she gives you your first grandchild. I don’t even want her to have children! I don’t want it!” she balled her hands into a fist, as if the gesture gave her more strength to speak, “This secret has turned me into a monster, a monster! And I will not live the rest of my life, cursing myself because of how you made me! This ends now. I want to know who her mother is.”

 

Her husband looked pale, paler than usual, at lost for words, eyes glistening.

 

She sat and waited for his answer, hands shaking in anger. Until she heard light sniffling, that belonged to neither her or Ned. He wasn't even looking at her anymore, only at the bed.

 

Slowly she looked down at the bed too, at the child with her grey eyes wide open and rimmed red. The girl didn't even dare breathe for a long while, leaving them all in a miserable silence, but when she did she coughed up heaps of mucus, her eyes painfully closed.

 

Catelyn had to lift the girls head up and press the cloth against her mouth, shouting for Ned to fetch Maester Luwin.

* * *

 

The child would live, by the old gods and the new, she would live. Two moons after recovering from her coma she laid in her sick bed, wheezing and coughing, but she’d been getting better. Sipping on scolding hot teas and stew to clear the cold from her throat.

 

Catelyn's hard work paid off. Her praying and caring for the child was paid off, her conscious clear of any guilt or self-loathing. It was almost easy to fall back into her old demeanor, to avoid the child at every turn, to be cold and distant. It was better for everyone if she did. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried, but nothing compelled her to be kind. No guilt or sadness, nothing. And the bastard didn't seem to want her around, flinched whenever she happened to walk in the same room as the girl.

 

Whatever the child had heard that day surely scarred her, and Ned would blame Catelyn for it, and that was reason enough to resent the bastard again. By the seven, the girl was her husband's bastard! The very symbol of Ned’s unfaithfulness. Catelyn could be much worse, could purposely and directly go out of her way to make the girls life at Winterfell so miserable she’d want to be married off in some cold castle in the far north. _But I had promised to the gods,_ her septa had told her the gods to know every lie even before they are uttered. Had told her not to use prayer in vain, to not use their name in vain. _Surely they will forgive me this, yes?_

 

In a span of two moons, the bastard was back at their table, near the edge and center with Arya and Bran. Not even Arya’s endless chatter could draw the girl from her daze, continuously stirring her venison stew and picking at her bread. Never eating either though. A part of Catelyn wanted to feel sympathetic, wanted to feel horrible and wrong, but old habits die the hardest.

 

The girl should know by now that Catelyn holds no love for her if she had thought otherwise she was none the wiser.

 

“Joan,” the sound of Ned’s voice seemed to make the table fall silent, all stopping to listen. The girl looked up timidly.

 

“Yes my lord.” the girl had learned long ago not to call Ned father in front of Catelyn, a small mercy for everyone. Ned never tried to right that either. 

 

“I would like to speak with you after supper, in my solar.” he gave the bastard a warm smile, something rare to see on his face. And she didn't even smile back. Only a simple nod, and _‘Yes, my lord.’_.

 

For the duration of the meal, Cat fixed her husband with a stare, trying to decipher the meaning of the words he spoke onto the bastard. What were they going to talk about? What was so important that the two had to discuss it in his solar? A betrothal perhaps. Her stomach twisted at the thought. She had prayed to the gods for this. To marry the bastard off and be done with it. She found now that she was eating those very words. Catelyn shook the thoughts away. A part of ignoring the bastard was to also ignore everything pertaining to the bastard. The girl was no threat, not to Robb or Sansa or the younglings. And whatever business Ned had with his bastard was none of her business.

 

Besides, her lack of presence has caused a slow pace in keeping the castle running, and she would like to spend more time with her true born children to make up for the time she spent with the bastard instead.

* * *

 

Of course, she heads to Ned’s solar anyway after supper, after sending her children off to bed. She doesn't know what she’ll say when she gets there, if he’ll even want her there after their petty argument but she goes.

 

The door is slightly cracked, and she hears little glimpses of conversation. The bastard is already there, as Catelyn had expected, and though she’s never been one to ease drop something draws her closer to the door to get a better hearing. What if he’s finally decided to tell the girl of her mother?

 

“-are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong father?” she could hear light whimpering and shuffling. She peeked through the crack to see Ned moving to encompass the girl in a hug. Catelyn bit down on her lip.

 

“No, sweetling. I could never be mad at you…” his voice is muffled from pressing his lips into her hair. “...want what’s best for you. Lady Mormont is a kind woman if a little boisterous, and she’ll do right by you. She has many daughters your age who…”

 

Catelyn could have rejoiced at that moment. The bastard was going away but she wasn't getting married either. Though that particular arrangement was strange within itself, after all, it wasn't so long ago Ned called for Lord Jorah Mormont’s head for being caught dealing with slavers or the such, before the man fled like a coward. Perhaps House Mormont wished to right itself of the dishonor brought upon the North's good name by taking in Ned’s natural daughter to get back in House Stark’s good graces.

 

“But I’m a bastard, how could she want me? What if she isn't kind what if she’s just saying yes to please you?” the girl broke down more, clinging to Ned tighter as if the mere thought of letting him go would result in her demise.

 

Something fierce sparked in Ned then. “Joan, you are of my blood. Lady Mormont wouldn't dare even if she thought to be unkind. And even then, if something were to happen...just send a raven and I’ll bring you home. I’ll launch a thousand ships if I have to.”

 

A small laughter filled the room through the tears. She had never heard the bastard laugh.

 

“W-when will I go?” the girl wiped her eyes of tears.

 

“In a few days time. Lady Dacey is already on her way and should be arriving soon enough. From there, you will travel with Lord Jory and a small band of guards along with Lady Dacey’s entourage. You will want to prepare yourself soon, say your goodbyes…” he kissed the girls brow again. “I’m going to miss you, sweetling. I want you to write home whenever you can, do you understand me?”

 

“Of course father, I promise.”

 

When the bastard stepped out of the solar she froze at the sight of Catelyn, like a doe caught in a hunter’s trap, before hurriedly walking away. Cat waited briefly, softly knocking on the door before entering the room after. “My lord,”

 

He looked at her knowingly from his desk. “My lady,”

 

Silence reigned between them, both seemingly content in listening to the crackling flames from the hearth and the wind that lightly whistled against the window.

 

Ned took in a deep sigh before speaking, “I know you were listening Cat, though I don’t know what you were expecting to hear.”

 

She wouldn't agree but she wouldn't deny it either. “So it is done then, the girl is leaving.”

 

“Yes, she is. Are you pleased my lady?” his voice was set in a light growl. He rubbed his hand over his face in distress. “It’s best for everyone, that you two are separated. Not after the damage, your words wrought.”

 

“I would never hurt the child,” she said at her own defense. “I’ve never been outwardly cruel nor have I ever laid a hand upon her. What I said, I hadn't meant for her to hear, and had I known that she was awake the very words would not have escaped me.” Ned considered her for a moment, before sighing in resignation.

 

“There are different ways one can hurt a child Cat, and not all of them are so blatant. This was a long time coming, the only problem is Arya. The two are as thick as thieves.”

She frowned in displeasure, “Arya has Sansa, she’ll be fine without the girl.”

 

Ned didn't seem to have the capacity to argue with her on that front. “Yes, I suppose. Is that all?”

 

No, it wasn't. “I know you plan to arrange a betrothal for the girl, may I ask who with?”

 

He glared at her with a great amount of suspicion, he always did when it came to the bastard. The look marred his features and turned him into something else entirely. He only responded with silence.

 

“I know the loyalty between you and your bannerman are strong Ned, but...men are easily swayed,” she bit her lip, trying to deposit the right words. “Lord Bolton scared me,”

 

Ned chuckled darkly at that, “Yes, he has that effect on people Cat.”

 

“This is no joking matter, my lord,” she quipped. “Men can be easily swayed once in a woman’s arms Ned, and I know northerners are staunch on loyalty especially when it comes to our house, but what’s to say some foolish lordling won't try something? It’s not as if it hasn't happened before. Lord Bolton...he was up to something, I know it, Ned. What’s to say the same idea has not crossed the mind of others?”

 

“So this is what this is all about?” he shook his head in disbelief. “Joan is a sweet girl, and you may not see it or maybe you do, but she loves her siblings, always has. She wouldn't dare think to betray them, and she’s a girl besides. She’s not a threat to anyone. I trust Lord Bolton as far as I can through him, and if he were to try something half the kingdoms would descend upon him.”

 

She clenched her fist, “Robert and Jon Arryn won't be here forever, my father won’t be here forever, we won’t be here forever Ned. We’re only growing older,”

 

“And we’ll have our children to take after us,” he said reassuringly. “Edmure loves you dearly, anyone can see that, and Robb is wise for his age, he’ll serve as a fine warden to Robert’s own son and heir. Your sister Lysa has given Jon a son, who’ll rule the Vale after him. We have blood ties and alliances with half the seven kingdoms Cat, Lord Bolton would be a fool to try it, and so would any other.” he rose from his great seat, sauntering over to her. His warm hands enveloped her own, kissing each one. “You worry for no reason Cat, worry and mistrust is the surest way to damn yourself.”

 

“I only worry for the sake of my children, you ought to do the same.”

 

“I am, I do every day,” he sounded mournful almost.

 

The lady pondered whether she should broach the subject of the girl's mother again, but thought better of it. It’s best to let the matter die down for now but in due time. She’d never love the child, but it’d be easier to place blame where blame is due with her gone.

 

* * *

 

 

**Daeron**

 

 _Daeron Targaryen._ That was what his mother had named him in her last fleeting moments.  Ser Willem often tells him that a storm had raged outside of Dragonstone, waves so large that it crashed against the cliffs and terrains of the castle, washing out the last remnants of the Targaryen fleet and with it any hope of countering the Usurper.

 

He often thinks about that night, though he doesn't remember any of it as good as his brother Viserys does.  Dany thinks about how in his mother's last moments she had thought of him, had clung to the last strands of life just to utter a name, so her child wouldn't remain nameless.  Of course, he knows someone else would have named him had she not, but the fact that she did meant the world to him.

She must have been strong and kind to do something like that for a child that stole her livelihood. Viserys tells him that she was all of those things, everything a queen should be and as far as his brother was concerned she was the last true queen of Westeros, leaving the Usurpers wife completely unacknowledged.

When he isn't thinking about the mother he’ll never have and the life that he could have led had the Usurper not stolen his brother's birthright, he plays in the garden with the other children, picking cranberries and ripe lemons to feast upon from the large tree.  When Visy isn't so sullen, he sometimes joins them although reluctantly -(after all, the blood of the dragon doesn't associate with that of lesser man, least of all the rightful king, at least that's what Viserys says when he chides Dany), carrying Dany on his shoulders pretending to be Balerion or Maraxes.

Sometimes Dany teaches the little rogue children how to read in the Common Tongue while they teach him words in bastard Valyrian of the Braavosi.

In those moments he forgets that he’s a prince of the blood, (the heir to the Iron Throne until his brother weds and has children) and he thinks sometimes even Viserys forgets that he has to reclaim their families throne.

Sometimes Dany doesn't care for his birthright or the War of the Usurper, not when he has a room full of toys and every night Ser Willem makes sure to add lemon cakes to their supper.  Sometimes, he thinks about being something else besides a prince, like a Norvoshi Priest or a Braavosi sword dancer, especially during sword practice.

At night Viserys regals him with tales of Dany’s namesake, of Daeron the Young Dragon who conquered Dorne and Daeron the Good who brought peace and prosperity to the realm.  A name that he couldn't imagine living up to.

His life is a peaceful one for a while, filled with childish laughter and a sort of serenity that only last a moment in life.  And of course, like most things, it does not last.

* * *

 

Ser Willem Darry grew sickly over the years, more weaker, and the servants had a drastic change in attitude. The old bear of a knight still roared out orders leaving the servants a scurrying mess, his voice more powerful than his own body. And that gave Dany and Viserys solace for a while, to see that there was still order and the servants still feared the man who owned the house.  All until the knight was bedridden, too weak to rise and unconscious from dream wine, and the servants gave them less food because of it, more stingy with the surplus in stores. Then, things started disappearing from Dany’s room, minor things like little toy figures he hadn't picked up in years and books for his studies. The young boy began to feel like a stranger in the place he called home for the better part of his life, unwanted and disregarded by those who knew him for the longest, whose children he played within the gardens, the servant women who soothed his scratches and aches when he took a fall or fell sick. Had they only been kind to him because they needed to?  The thought had hurt more than he’d cared to admit.

They danced around the two princes like mice, avoiding them at every turn and averting their gaze when they happened upon the boys. The halls were no longer filled with child’s laughter, and Viserys grew wary of each and every one of them.  And rightfully so, because when the sickness finally overcame Ser Willem Darry, it wasn't long before the red door to the manse closed in their faces forever, and with it his childhood. Dany had only been six then, a boy still growing.

Tears had silently streaked his red face as Viserys practically dragged him through the winding alleyways and cobbled streets of Braavos, cursing and shouting at Dany to shut up. They had only had the clothes on their backs, and a sack of their mother's belongings that Viserys had always kept out of reach of wandering hands. Dany had had a golden dagger hidden beneath his tunic, the last gift Ser Willem gave him before falling into his unconscious state, and even that hadn't been enough closure for the shelterless nights to come. For all that Viserys had been mad with rage and indignation, swearing his vengeance by all of the Seven gods, he had been just as scared and hurt as Dany. That night had been the beginning of the end for both of them.

* * *

 

It wasn't long before the Usurper caught wind of the exiled and abandoned Targaryens, forcing Viserys to keep watch of the potential assassins and hidden knives in every alley.  For a while they traveled the streets though only at night, slowly edging their way to the docks.

The Rosemary was the ship they embarked on, and it had been the first time Viserys sold one of their mothers valuables, a golden bracelet with red rubies embedded into the surface.  It glowed brightly in the captain's eyes, the scarlet rays making them sparkle with greed, and just like that, they had a one-way passage to Lorath, a fairly peaceful city for everyone except him and Viserys. Where would they go after?  

“Where're going on an adventure, Dany,” had been Viserys reply the first time Dany dared to ask, his brothers smile strained and eyes watery as they watched Braavos grow small on the horizon.  Had there ever been a destination? Had they ever had a home?

They scurried the streets like vermin still, until Viserys found allies in rich merchants and magisters, some even kind enough to give them the leftovers of their supper.  Dany had been young, yet he knew an insult when he saw one, but even hunger could abate his brother's pride. It must have been amusing to them, to see the last scions of House Targaryen begging for table scraps.  Viserys would give him most of everything. Most of the bread, most of the wine and water, most of the blood oranges and sweetened lemons, barely leaving any for himself.

Dany had to swallow down the guilt along with the scraps, as his brother grew gaunter by the day.

Then there were those who were nice enough to let them stay in spare rooms, their lips wet with want and skin slick with perspiration, a motive lurking behind each kindness.

Their eyes held perversion, many that Dany had been fortunate enough to never have been exposed to, but at the expense of his brother.

How many nights did he pretend to be asleep as Viserys limped into the room? Bruises littering his creamy skin and his lilac eyes sunken with disgust and regret. So weak and vulnerable was his brother, so exposed in those brief moments when he washed his shame away with a basin of water, with only Dany for witness. And as time went on, the fire in his brother's eyes dulled in the darkness of night.  He held Dany on those nights, quietly whimpering into Dany’s hair.

Over the years, his brother gave up everything. His mother's crown, her golden choker, and bracelets, even the rings she once put on her fingers, just to flee to different cities. And that had truly broken him.

They stayed in numerous manses in which his brother sold something more precious than any jewel: his innocence the little that was left of it, just to have a roof over their head. All the while he made oaths of vengeance against all who wronged them, from the maids in Braavos to the Usurper sitting their throne.

Viserys became bitter with each year that passed, their livelihood running on foiled plots and schemes yet taken to play, finding allies in men who they were better off not meeting at all.  Then one day, his brother snapped.

It had seemed as if they’d finally found a permanent home for the time being, with an old magister, lonely and starved for affection. Enough to let the last remnants of Valyria stay housed in his home, in exchange for the eldest boys body.

It had been a sunny afternoon, a light summer breeze drifting through the open windows and balconies of the manse they’d stayed in. He had been wandering the halls when he knew he shouldn't have, knew he was supposed to keep out the sight of the magister lest the man get any ideas about whose bed he really wished to share. But he had been so lonely while his brother was away discussing plans, and he was only a child, a boy of nine years.  Dany’s mind had mistakenly and foolishly wandered back to the house with the red door, to the days when their only problem was wondering whether they would receive lemon cakes after dinner in lieu of wondering if they’d receive anything at all.

And then Dany had happened upon them, the old magister leaning over to plant his wormy chapped lips upon Viserys lips, his hands wrapped around his brother's wrist as the younger man tried to wriggle it away.  Viserys eyes had shifted to the door where Dany stood frozen in place, and all time had seemed to stop.

For the longest, Dany knew of what Viserys was forced to do in order to keep a roof over their head, even at such a young age when Dany had to acknowledge and face the evils of the world. But Viserys never knew Dany knew, had believed that his younger brother was oblivious to his shame, and the fragile stability they found had crumbled to pieces like brittle.

That same night Viserys had grabbed a switch, wiry and sharp, with tears of anger and pain in his large manic eyes, before landing its rigid surface upon Danys skin. It was reminiscent to that of slits of porcelain, cracking open on his arms and legs as he curled into himself and whimpered.

“Why can't you just listen for once?” Viserys had let out in a sharp cry, in a withering rage that slowly transitioned into sorrow, before he collapsed onto the ground, shoulders slumped from exhaustion. Dany couldn't find it in himself to hate his brother, for every blow was compensated for the nights he remained unbothered by lustful hands whilst he had a roof to sleep under.  It remained that way for many more nights, Viserys finally having an outlet for his buried indignation in which he found with a belt and his little brother.

Viserys tells him many things on those particular nights, things that had been completely unbeknownst to Dany.  That he was the reason why their mother no longer breathed, that if their long-dead brother Rhaegar had not run off with his wolf bitch they wouldn't have been in this situation, that he wouldn't have to give his body like a common whore. He says these things with such surety, with such passion, tears rolling down his cheeks, and Dany could do nothing but believe every word.

And then he swears and swears that one day all his struggles and burdens, Dany being among them, would be compensated for.  That one day the Usurper's head and all his dogs would plant spikes, that one day he would sit the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms, before repaying each magister and merchant for their _kindness. I am the blood of the dragon,_ Viserys would say,  _and the dragon never forgets._ A lost, faraway look would linger in his glassy eyes after, lost in time and space.

 

* * *

 

  **Viserys**

“Wherever I go, Daeron goes,” Viserys said through gritted teeth, his hand locked in an iron grip around Dany’s upper arm, making him sort of dangle.

Old Master Grazdan no Forel leveled his brother with a gaze, cocking his head slightly, making his baked jowls shift.“Where we are going is not a place for children, Your Grace,” the way he said the title was almost mocking.  The two of them were way past formalities, and a king did not give up his body like a whore, but Viserys refused to correct the man for his behavior, not when so much was at stake. “And I wish to speak with you privately besides,” he purred out the words in a way that made Viserys skin crawl.

Slowly he let his brother go, Dany letting out a brief sigh of relief before rubbing the newly formed bruise on his arm. A slave girl came into Viserys line of sight, edging toward Dany to lure him away, some Unsullied guards following behind.  His younger brother was a boy of eleven now, nearly a man grown and tall for his age, and he knew the ways of men older than him thanks to Viserys own experiences. Surely he’ll make sure to stay alert.

It wasn't so long ago that Dany plunged his small golden-hilted dagger into the heart of the old magister they used to stay with, the moment the sick bastard tried to make a move on his younger brother. As if he had any right to touch the last thing that truly belonged to Viserys.

Dany had grown to be a handsome boy after all, with his silver hair hued in gold and dark violet eyes, his innocence intact and untouched. Dany was pure in every sense of the word.  

Sometimes he wonders what drove Daeron to do it.  Was it an accident? Did he do it out of fear or anger?  Sometimes Viserys is envious for not being strong enough to do the same. The first time one of those greasy pigs decided to touch him, and he hated his brother for it.  Just as much as he blamed him for making them lose yet another place to stay, for making Viserys have to share the bed of many more merchants, magisters, and now masters for the sake of that foolish pride.

It seems as if they traveled all of Essos, making their way from the Free Cities with the valuables stolen from the old pig, all the way to Slaver’s Bay. He knew not what he sought in the Masters or Free Man, only that it was a place the Usurper had yet to chase them too, and that he could possibly conjure up some plot, or make some alliance to take back his throne. Master Gazdan was the only one who didn't close a door in his face.

They walked through the halls of the man's estate, footstep falling in unison.  It has been moons since Viserys managed to find a roof that would last longer than a few months and almost a lifetime since he wore silken tunics and breeches and well-fitted boots.

Unsullied instantaneously flanked their side the moment they stepped foot outside the palace like manse.  They moved with a precision and strictness matched by no other, long steel spears gripped tightly in their hands and yet they made the staff look like light and dainty. Oh how Viserys thirsted for thirty thousand soldiers like that, even a thousand would suffice if nothing at all.

Outside laid palaces, towers and temples belonging to numerous religions, the most prominent being followers of R'hllor. And the air held a sweetness to it along with a sourness that reminded him of curdled milk.  Even from afar, he could see the Black Walls guarding the eastern part of Volantis, and the rays of sunlight that beamed down upon the limestone buildings and alabaster streets made the city look dreamlike in the light of day.  Still, the swell of heat made his skin slick with sweat and his silks dampened.

“You know,” the man started, an eyebrow raised as he rubbed his oiled beard. “It has come to me that I haven't found a reason for you being here, save the obvious one.  But the thing is, by what means do you seek to get that? And what makes you think you’ll find it in Volantis, Your Grace?” his accent was that of fine oils and rich wine.

“I seek an alliance, I seek an army,” it was simple, so very simple and in the end, the simplest things are hard to attain. “And those who help me will be rewarded greatly in the aftermath of me ascending my throne,” he made sure to sound confident, with the poise and act of royalty, how he once heard his Queen Mother and princely brother speak. He doesn't recall if his kingly father ever spoke the same, but Viserys would never doubt his late father in that regard.

Master Forel waved his hand dismissively, “Yes, yes I know that.  But what does Volantis have to gain from this? Something must be given in return, a stock and bond of sorts,” a smile formed on his usually pursed lips, with yellow teeth that almost looked gold in the sunset.  

The Elephant halted in front of a building, wafting with the scent of perfumes and boiled oils, sweat, and sex. Viserys stomach lurched. A gentle hand placed itself on his shoulder, “Do not worry your grace, it is not what you think.  I do not enjoy the company of men as much as I enjoy women, least of all young boys,” the heat of his breath graced Viserys ear.

An insult upon an insult served on a silver platter of false kindness.  Viserys had to calm the dragon within him, the beast that threatened to rouse from his slumbering.  The moment they walked through the threshold of the brothel women latched onto them, free and slaves alike, though it wasn't long before Master Forel shooed them away.

They sat in a secluded area, at a table filled with plates of cakes, sausages, blood oranges, sweetened lemons, and monkey brain.  Viserys had tried not to grimace at the dish served to him, as the master beckoned more plates of it toward their way. “A popular dish in Meereen and I don't mind it myself,” he claimed.

The man didn't hesitate to pass Viserys cups of different wine, even those from Westeros.  Arbor gold and sour Dornish red that reminded him of the dinners held in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, dragon skulls looming above, watching with empty voided eyes.  Vaguely, he wondered if they were still there, or if the Usurper discarded the last remnants of the old the dragons, the last evidence to prove that they were actually real.  It made him all the more determined.

“What did you mean by a stock and bond?” he promptly set a cup of Dornish red down.

“Something that my family and by extension Volantis can profit from, and perhaps even you. So much that you won't have to knock on the doors of strangers to attain wealth or a home, in fact, you may even be able to buy your own army,”

For a moment, the man's voice seemed almost far away. The atmosphere was a torrent of waves he couldn't entirely discern, from the idle chatter and muffled moans of pleasure, the suffocating scent of foreign spices and meats that made his stomach churn. Some Essosi woman's singing voice lingers lightly in the air. He sunk further into depths of a luminous trance and took another sip from his cup. _My own army, my own home, my own wealth._ It was everything Viserys could ask for at that moment.  Dornish red had never tasted so sweet on his tongue, it had never been an acquired taste either, but he found himself thirsting for more of it as he contemplated on the master's words.

“Your Grace? Is all well?” but his face was not that of concern.  Instead, a triumph smile played on his browned lips, eyes as sharp as a hawk, plotting and calculating. It was a look Viserys was familiar with with the likes of merchants and magisters, only this time he sat with a master.  One who did not truly seek Viserys body, and one who held the king in his favor, if only because there was something to gain from it. But what?

“What do I have to do,” he said it flatly, with a slurred speech, and tried not to grimace at how drunk he sounded.

“It will take some time, years even. The other day, while I was handling some business around the premise of my manse, I saw your younger brother in one of my training yards, and I have to admit I was impressed,” that made Viserys sit up straighter, the hairs on his neck coming to an abrupt stand. Anger and fear clouded his mind, along with the large fragments of possessiveness and vague jealousy.  The master immediately raised his hands in defense. “I assure you, your grace, what I am about to speak is not as bad as it seems. There is a place known as Tolos, near the Lands of the Long Summer, that takes young boys with raw talents, such as your Dany, and hone those abilities and trains them into becoming some of the most fearsome fighters in the land, only second to the Unsullied,”

“How does that benefit me in any way?!,” his hands began to tremble in a quick flash of white rage. He breathed through his nose, clenching and unclenching his weathered hands, trying to tame the dragon inside. “You ask me to sell my brother?  The heir to the Iron Throne and one of the last of the blood of the dragon?”

“You could make thousands,” the master leveled him with fierce eyes shining in greed. “Hundreds of thousands and more than that, you wouldn't have to lower yourself to that of a lesser man.  For years, you have taken care of your brother. Have fought for him, fed him, clothed him and kept a roof over his head. And you are a king, he is a merely a prince, another lesser. Don't you think it's high time the favor was returned, the debt repaid?  This is what I offer you, Your Grace.”

With each word, the flames of his rage were liquidated in the cool waves of soothing promises and truths.  It was true, all of it was true, and yet it didn't taste as sweet as the Dornish red did just a minute ago.

Dany was the reason why he was here in the first place, Viserys reasoned.  For his belligerence and foolish pride, a true pride, hidden beneath the quiet facade of meekness and humbleness, that made Viserys envious.  That made each blow land harder on his little brother, each time that pride dare shined through, like a rising sun waking the dragon within Viserys.

“You do want an army don't you?”

“Of course I want an army!” the room seemed to fall into a silent murmur. “But willingly giving up my brother won't be easy,” Viserys had made a promise to his mother, a long time ago amidst a raging storm and bloodied sheets.  Her voice fades from his memory every day, and her face no longer exists in the crevices of his mind. Another thing Dany has taken from Viserys.

“Of course, I understand,”  Viserys highly doubted a slave master understood, and the more he thought about the situation at hand the more he reprimanded himself for falling into the master's trap. “But I offer you something more, akin to adding sugar to a bitter tea. You wouldn't be giving up your brother completely, only for a brief time, Your Grace.  And then after he is grown and seasoned, a thing as simple as marriage. I know the Westerosi do the same, almost everyone does, to attain allies and armies and food and wealth. So simple of a thing,”

“A marriage?” Viserys leaned back in his seat, he hadn't even noticed when he jolted. “With whom?” a marriage wouldn't be so bad, it was far better than anything Viserys had done.  Dany ought to be grateful for Viserys bestowing a better fate upon him than sharing a greasy merchants bed.

“Why, a Dothraki princess, your grace.  Daughter to the most fearsome warriors in Essos,” the man's eyes flickered in the light. “And to be more precise, the daughter of Khal Bharbo the Old Stallion.”

Viserys had heard tales of the man, everyone in Essos had.  He was doing something no Khal had done in thousands of years, gathering up a Great Khalasar like the world hasn't seen since before the Dawn Age, that left the Free Cities reasonably unsettled.

“How do I know for certain that this Khal Bharbo will agree?”

“We don't know.  The Dothraki are a strange people, prone to impulse and dramatics, but rumor has it that the Great Khal seeks someone of Valyrian blood for his daughter.  Something to do with a prophecy or another,” Master Forel casually waved the last part off, popping a piece of monkey brain into his mouth. “So? What do you say, your grace?”

The answer was so obvious, and it all seemed so simple. “And in exchange, this Khal Bharbo will ride under my banner?” his nails dug into the fabric of his breeches, that of a desperate man.

Master Forel gave him a yellow grin, his jowls shifting from the quick stretch of skin. “Of course your grace, but Khal Bharbo won't just take anyone. Your brother is of royal blood, and a descendant of old Valyria true, but it is Dothraki tradition for a Khal to wed his daughter to a Bloodrider, a Khal’s most trusted man and fighter, who by marrying the Khal’s daughter- and in this case only child- will become Khal after him,”

Viserys grew more frustrated by the second, eagerness and impatience eating up at him like a disease. “Meaning?  Surely Dany’s blood is enough for the likes of heathens?”

“Of course it is! But how likely are they to follow an unseasoned boy, the blood of the dragon or not? How will your brother ever gain the respect of a people like the Dothraki, who pride themselves in battle and blood? In Tolos your brother will gain all the battle and blood he needs, and in turn, the Dothraki will follow him, and he will follow you,”

All the pieces came together, far more discernable and promising than any other scheme and plot he’s organized. He could almost feel the cold metal of a thousand melted swords beneath his palm. The blood of his enemies would taste sweeter than any wine, and a crown would rest easily on his head.  Things were going to work in his favor, that he knew for certain, and the future had never felt so certain.

“So, what do you say, your grace?” the master leaned back into his cushions and silks, the pearls embroidered into his blue tokar shimmering in the light of the torches. With a motion of his hand, he beckoned over the whores he previously delayed, a pretty Lyseni girl with tears tattooed beneath her eyes plopping onto Viserys lap, smelling of sugar and vanilla.  Had Viserys ever known the touch of a woman? Had he ever had time to?

“When shall we began, Master Forel?”

 


	2. II

 

**_Joan_ **

 

The fever had come so suddenly. Her head started to burn up and every time she breathed it felt as if she’d inhaled flames. Joan’s nights had been filled with headaches and coughing up mucus, sipping on hot teas filled with herbs. Despite Luwin’s best efforts, the fever only worsened, until she was all but bedridden, switching from delirious and awake to a completely unconscious state of being. She doesn't even remember most of it, only a vague memory of soft hands tending to her and the beating of wings in her ears. Perhaps the ravens and crows that inhabited the Old Keep were flying about to bask in the light weather. And that was the odd thing, she had fallen sick during summer of all the seasons.

 

It had all seemed as if everything would return to normal after her fever broke through, but in truth, everything changed the moment she woke to the sound of Lady Stark’s voice. She’d known the woman disliked her by virtue of being her husband's bastard, but she hadn't known the woman hated her so.  So much contempt and loathing. It was a horrible way to wake up, and upon hearing the woman's words she’d felt as if she couldn't breathe. In reality, it was only the mucus clouding her throat and nose that made it difficult to breathe.

 

And now she was leaving. It felt like a punishment of some sort but father constantly assured her fostering was for her own good.  He’d bring up the time he fostered in the Vale and the bond he’d formed with his grace King Robert and the Hand. At the time they’d been two lordlings under the tutelage of Jon Arryn, father shy and quiet and Robert loud and boisterous. The complete opposite of each other, but the friendship they formed paid off in the long run.

 

Father said there would be other girls her age that she could bond with. Lady Mormonts numerous daughters.  He said Joan was doing a service to House Stark, strengthening loyalties and brokering friendships that might pay off in the future. _To ease the tension between our two houses,_ was father’s reasoning. In other circumstances, she would have been proud of that but she couldn't help but feel like she was being sent away at Lady Stark’s dispense.

 

Arya was wroth, whether it was because Joan was leaving or the fact that she couldn't come along was unbeknownst to the bastard. But she loathed the idea of leaving her little sister behind.  Sansa seemed content with Joan leaving while Robb was a little saddened but resigned with her departure, but Arya...Arya was her little sister. Who would Arya go to when she was sad or when the night was too dark, whose bed would she sneak into then? Who would her little sister share her secrets with? Her hopes and dreams to out of scope with what society has planned for her?

 

The days seemed to fly by, drawing closer to the Mormont’s arrival. Winterfell hadn't had a vassal house visit since the harvest feast, and all anticipated for the she-bears arrival, all accept Joan.

 

She had little to pack. A few gifts father gave her from past namedays, woolen dresses and breeches, boots and furs, and the practice harp. Joan figured no one else had need of it. Each song she played became slow and sorrowful by the day, matching her moods. For all that she felt like an outsider at times, Winterfell was her home, and home was familiar. What if she was trading in Winterfell for something much worse? A lot filled with Lady Starks and Septa Mordanes, Theons and Jeynes, Beths and Sansas. She hated to think of her half-sister that way but...

 

As was promised, Dacey Mormont arrived in Winterfell's Great Hall to accept bread and salt, with her retinue of guards and servants.

 

Joan had never seen a woman so tall, yet still so graceful. Her figure was lithe and supple, and her brown eyes humored all around her, including Joan. The young woman seemed to hold no judgment or disdain for being saddled with a bastard and was the first to seek the other out, out of the both of them. Dacey would watch on as Joan perfected her archery, observant and silent, an indiscernible smile etched onto her face.

 

In the mornings the young woman would attend the sewing circle by Lady Stark’s insistence, dressed in fine ladies garb, then around noon, she would slip into the training yard with breeches and padding, a practice mace in hand. A strong weapon that relied on brute force and landing powerful blows. The heiress was good, perhaps better than some of Ser Rodrik’s recruits.  It had come as a shock to most, that a lady would handle such a weapon, until they remembered who said ladies mother was.

 

Sometimes Lady Stark would look down from the terrace with an expression of veiled disdain, as Dacey knocked Theon into the dirt. Why the ironborn persisted on practicing with the she-bear after every defeat was beyond Joan, but it grated on Lady Stark’s nerves that he continued on bothering the heiress.

 

Dacey stayed at Winterfell for a sennight, before embarking on their journey. If she’d thought leaving was hard the very notion of saying goodbye was harder. A long farewell where she had to continuously hold back her tears.  She promised both her father and siblings that she’d write as much as she could. It hurt kissing her little brother’s goodbye, would they even remember her by the time she returned? If she ever returned, to begin with. Not looking back as she left the gates of her home had left her emotionally drained.  Lady Stark seemed to be the only one pleased with the whole affair, while Sansa was as sad as she allowed herself to be, forever playing the proper lady. Theon was completely indifferent to her departure, not that she expected him to be otherwise.

 

Father...he was the hardest to read.  Robb was saddened and Arya even more so, but father gave no indication of feeling anything at all. He hugged her of course and kissed her upon the brow as he did all of his children, but there were no tears, no breaking past his icy exterior.  Perhaps that made it easier for him to send her away?

 

Over the years, the road from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte was hardened by ice and covered in snow to the point that the road itself was indescribable from everything else, and the garons and coursers had to tread carefully.

 

Joan had never traveled through the Wolfswood, had never traveled further than Wintertown.

 

They were surrounded by oaks and evergreens, soldier pines and hawthorns, and so and so forth. The woods lived up to its namesake, for at night the howling of wolves was as strong as the wind that bellowed through its trees.  It was why their breaks were always few and far in between, and only stopped when they neared lone towers or a kindly crofters cottage.

 

She felt utterly alone in the entourage full of guards and servants. It wasn't as if Dacey Mormont had not tried to talk to Joan, but the latter was afraid and reserved.  Experience had taught her well enough that no matter how much a noble liked her, they’d only ever see her as a bastard. _And I’d learned that from my brother, of all the people._ The honorable Ned Stark’s bastard, it proved that their valiant lord was imperfect, and she was said imperfection. She wondered how many of the people around her would sooner leave her for dead if a hungry pack of wolves were to happen upon them than defend the bastard. It made her all the more wary of her surroundings.

 

Dacey steered her mount near Joan’s. At the moment the lady in question wore a dark green surcoat with an emblazoned black bear over a black tunic along with riding breeches and boots, a belt fastened around her waist. Her inky black hair, straight and fine, was tucked beneath the hood of her fur pelt.  It was strange, how easily the woman could fill out a gown and at the same time be at ease in man’s garb. The attire wasn't befitting a lady of her station, but Dacey Mormont seemed to care little for the rules society instilled.

 

She laughed freely and carelessly as any heir to a proud house, not unlike Robb or Theon. Her mace was never out of reach and she rode, drank and sang as well as any man.  But despite all of that, there was a femininity that wasn't lacking in any shape or form. She was still a lady and acted the part when need be, especially when they stopped at the holdfast of other lords. Sometimes she’d catch the woman humming sweetly to a song, not unlike Sansa or idly picking flowers like Arya. Brushing and braiding her hair with tentative care, a dreamy look in her brown eyes.

 

“Do you wish for a break lass?” Dacey kindly inquired. The Joan’s legs were aching, she’d never ridden at this length and for days on end, but... she shook her head no in response.  She wouldn't have their trip delayed any further at her expense, and the sooner they were out of the woods the better. “Would you care for some warm ale then? It’s watered down.”

 

“No thank you, my lady.” Joan smiled reassuringly, but the she-bear only frowned questingly in response, before lightly shrugging.

 

“Very well then.”

 

They rode in further silence until the young woman spoke again. “So, you like archery?”

 

“I suppose I do, my lady.”

 

“Any type of bow you prefer?”

 

Joan couldn't think of one at the top of her head. She never truly enjoyed archery, not with Theon always around to bother her, and she barely started half a year ago. The bastard bit her lip in contemplation. “A recurve bow.” she’d settle on that for now.

 

“Are you sure?” that puzzled the young girl. What did she mean if Joan was sure? “You seem more suited for other pursuits, though I suppose archery is respectable enough for a lady by most standards.”

 

“W-what do you mean?” the young girl stumbled over her words.

 

“I mean that you don’t need to continue pursuing archery if it isn't your strongest suit,” Dacey scratched her chin in thought. “You are of slight build, and I’ve seen how you walk. Quick and swift. You barely make a sound when you do, that’s a strong feat considering we’re surrounded by snow. Perhaps spearmanship or swordsmanship, either would do.”

 

Joan was unsure about that. Father had only allowed her to do archery for a reason. Her prospects were already low as is, it wouldn't do to further lower them. “But father said-”

 

“You're not under your father’s care anymore.  He entrusted you to House Mormont. Bear Island has its charms little lady, but it is a rough place to live.  You’d do well to protect yourself properly and what better way to do that than with something you're actually good at?  Besides, archery’s for cowards.” the she-bear chuckled at Joan’s dumbfounded expression.

 

What did she mean by _rough place_? And how long had the woman been dissecting her?  No, that wasn't fair. The girl had definitely been dissecting the heiress. Joan found herself blushing at that.

 

“Don’t worry little one,” the heiress continued. “You may be starting late in your training but you’ll be practicing with my sisters.  Some of them are your age you know? Right proper lasses, you’ll get along rather well with them.”

 

Joan only nodded numbly in response, and they continued on in silence. It was still daylight, and it would be a few more hours yet before they made it to the seat of House Glover. Joan hears that the Bastard of Hornwood is there as well, she’d never met another noble bastard before.

 

* * *

 

The wooden castle is an old structure if not the strongest.  She vaguely remembers Robb telling her of it, after one of his visits with father and Theon. It was a motte and bailey castle, and it’s longhall sat on top of the flat part of a green hill just above the bailey. It was surrounded by walls of wood and moss, while the fields were enriched with oats and barley. Despite being inferior to Winterfell, with its lack of stone and formidable structure, it had its own homely charm. Or maybe she was just relieved that they were out of the Wolfswood, and it was the safety it could provide from wild animals that added to its charm and not the settlement itself.

 

Dacey said they would only stay for a night, and leave on the morn.

 

Lord Galbart Glover greeted them kindly, though he had an air of gravitas to him. His tall brother Robett Glover had stood beside him, with his lady wife Sybelle Glover.  The woman seemed kind enough, and if she saw a problem with hosting a bastard she didn't show it. Then there was Larence Snow, a little boy just a year Arya’s senior. And...he seemed happy almost.  Like he hadn't truly figured out what he was yet or maybe those around him didn't care enough to remind him. Or maybe he was good at hiding it, perhaps better than her. But he didn't seem tense around the Glover’s, and the Lady Glover looked kindly upon him.  Then again, it wasn't her husband's bastard that they were housing.

 

The hall was warm enough, if not as warm as the Great Hall, but she only noticed because Lord Galbart noted as much. The man was unexceptional, and all around queer by most people's standards.  He hadn't a wife or child of his own save little Larence whom he took under his care, not even any bastards of his own. But he only had good words about her father, despite hosting her father’s dishonor, and he was steady.  Everything about him was genuine, which is something that couldn't be said about most. His brother, on the other hand, was a hard man, though the honorable sort.

 

Dacey had mentioned the Lady Sybelle being a pious woman when it came to the Old Gods, and was rumored to spend hours in Deepwood’s godswood.  The only pious woman Joan had ever met prior to meeting Lady Glover was Lady Stark, who worshipped the Seven. Sometimes the Glover’s would mention the Sept in Winterfell offhandedly, _a strange thing that,_ they would say before trailing down another topic. But it was Sybelle that seemed most bothered by it, asking little questions here or there.  The Lord Golbart was talking with Dacey, while his brother was busying himself conversing with Jory about his nuncle Ser Rodrik. Jory whom she’d forgotten was even there.  Leaving Joan entrapped in conversation with the lady.

 

“I hear the godswood in Winterfell is a beautiful thing, perhaps older than our own. You children must visit it often I wager?” she lightly inquired, taking a sip of her wine. The Lady Sybelle was a slim woman, with an oval-shaped face and chestnut brown hair to match her eyes. Different from Lady Stark in every way. Joan tried to remind herself that. Tried to remind herself that this lady was younger than father’s lady wife as well, and had no real reason to dislike Joan.

 

“We do my lady, Lord Stark always takes us there and sometimes we go on our own volition. ” Joan tried to calm her nerves. Nobles never sought her out so openly, never talked to her or regarded her in any way save acknowledging her for who she was. Was the lady truly irked by the sept to forget proper etiquette in lieu of talking to a bastard? “In fact my fath- my Lord Stark opens it up every turn of the moon for the smallfolk to come in, to sing hymns and the like.” she finished with a sure nod, internally cursing herself for her slip up.

 

“Oh really? Do you have a favorite little lady?”

 

Joan smiled an uncertain smile.  She had many favorites. “The Voice is quite nice and old too.”

 

The woman’s expression softened as she sat her cup down. “Is that so?”

 

Lord Jory found an unconventional time to but in on their conversation. “It is my lady, the Lady Snow enjoys a good song or two, and has been singing and playing that harp of her’s for as long as I can remember.” _for the love of all that is good, stop talking!_ She desperately wanted to shout, instead, she silently blushed.

 

“Oh, I wasn't aware that you played an instrument, Joan?” Dacey added in, stopping the conversation between her and Lord Golbart, a peculiar twinkle in her eye. “The harp you say, Lord Jory? I thought I saw something of the sort in your luggage Joan. Perhaps you can play for us?” _No_ , the word was there, hanging at the tip of her tongue.  She’d only played for Arya and father, and Septa Mordane. Father only looked on at her sullenly whenever she played for him and Arya thought that everything Joan did was great, but it was Septa Mordane who’d ever given her true feedback, despite how horrible said feedback was.  Was she really ready to play in front of all these nobles? Did she really have a choice? Joan didn't want to risk affronting them by saying no. Who was she, a bastard to say no to them? But, she just wasn't as good as she could be. It seemed she was damned either way though, because Lady Glover had cheerfully called for a servant to bring down a harp from one of the cellars.

 

The servant boy came back with a lap harp, carefully handing it over to Joan. With a shaky sigh, she pushed back her seat to give the instrument more room, placing it gently between her thighs.  She tightened the strings, setting them to rights, lightly strumming her fingers across a few of them to test the feel and sound.

 

With a deep intake of breath, she closed her eyes, and begin to sing.

 

 _“I hear your voice on the wind,”_ she began, taking another breath to ease her nerves. Her fingers positioned themselves on both sides of the harp, strumming against the strings once more, but this time with more ease and poise.  She arched her back more too, that always helped. _“And I hear you call out my name.  Listen, my child, you say to me, I am the voice of your history.”_

 

The song had a wistful note to it, an awakening of sorts, a symbol of remembrance for those who’ve forgotten. _Ours is the old way,_ her father was wont to say.

 

When she plucked the last notes to the song, her voice near the end of the lyrics, she opened her eyes again. The hall was silent, seemingly cast under a spell, her spell. Immediately she began to panic. Was it that bad?  Perhaps Septa Mordane had been right...

 

“That was beautiful lass!” Dacey was the first to break the silence, with _praise_.

 

“I must agree with the Lady Mormont, Joan Snow.” Lady Sybelle spoke genuinely enough, eyes watery with unspilled tears. Lord Golbart nodded in agreeance, smiling gently.

 

“See, I knew I had the right of it!” Jory boasted, taking a generous sip from his horn of ale. She could have throttled the man. There were so many ways that could have gone wrong, and he’d thrusted her into it.  She hadn't even known he knew about her harp playing, though it wouldn't be a stretch to assume he’d probably heard her singing while guarding her father’s solar. “I dare say her voice could soften the hardest of men.” they’d all cheered to that, and Joan had to bite down a smile.

 

She only talked to Laurence briefly but found that he was a shy boy, at least around strangers. Still, he was kind and good, with an air of integrity that surrounded him.  Joan wonders about that, wonders if she’d been fostered way earlier in life would she have been the same.

* * *

 

 

They departed early in the morn heading to the shore where a longship awaited them. Jory and his band of guards had gone south back to Winterfell the moment she and Dacey departed, the latter claiming that his services were no longer needed. Men and women loyal to house Mormont in tow, they boarded the ship where the captain awaited them.

 

“It’s called the _Seabear_ ,” the heiress proclaimed, before snorting. “Isn't that a funny name?” It had a single rectangular cloth sail woven from wool dyed green, blazoned with a black bear and detailed carvings on the ironwood hull of what looked like seals. It was graceful and long, narrow and light. _Like Dacey,_ she mentally added.

 

“You see how it’s double ended? It helps when we wish to change in direction, but we don't have to put in the effort of actually turning around. And you see the draft there, at the point of the hull?  That helps with speed.” she gestured toward the draft in question. It was easy to see from the peak of the hull. “House Mormont’s old longships used to have oars until we figured out it was smarter to just use a sail. Less manpower needed.” Joan could listen to the woman talk for hours on end, about everything and nothing at all. From the Ice Dragon in the sky to the myths and legends of Sea Dragon’s Point to the baby seals that lounged on the icebergs.

 

The Bay of Ice was true to its name, for large chunks of sea ice and icebergs floated about, making it almost difficult to navigate. But their captain, Harnold, must have done it many a time before, for they arrived at Bear Island within a fortnight of travel without issue. It had been the first time Joan had stepped foot on a ship, and hopefully, it wouldn't be her last.  

* * *

 

 

Dacey was right.  Bear Island did have its charms. The ship was anchored on the cost of the large cove in the center of the island, where a large fishing village lay. It was filled with rocks and sand, and the smell of salt and pine filled the air. The island was filled to the brim with large gnarled oaks and rich pines, thorn bushes and moss-covered grey stones that filled the bulk of the coast.  Dacey told her that streams could be found in the steep hills if Joan wished to take a dip sometimes.

 

The people were lusty and broad, and the women carried around spears and axes just the same as the men. “It makes no sense to only have half the island doing the fighting,” was Dacey’s reasoning, but during her lessons, Joan had read that in the past the women were forced to take up arms against ironborn and wildling invaders when their men were at sea. It created a warrior culture among the women, and when one entered the Mormont Keep, made from wood and stone, they were greeted with the sight of a carving of a woman in bearskin, a babe sucking at her breast in one arm and a battleax in the other. The hall was made of large logs and surrounded by an earthen palisade.

 

It is there that she meets the rest of House Mormont. The hall was smokey and warm, making her hair slightly frizzy. Maege Mormont sat on a large stump carved in the likes of a bear, at least six feet tall. She was short and stout, grey-haired with withered skin, but she looked fearsome in the way she casually wore ringmail and boiled leather, a spiked mace on her hip.  Beside the bear seat, is her daughter’s: a visibly pregnant Alysane, Jorelle, and Lyra who looked to be around Joan’s age, and the little toddler Lyanna. _My aunt's namesake._

 

Dark haired, brown-eyed and pale skinned. Broad and stout or lithe and tall, and predominantly female warriors. That was House Mormont, and Joan had never seen its like before.

 

“Hmp, your Ned’s girl all right,” the woman cracks a smile. It looks unseemly on her face. “What they call you little one?” They all look at her expectantly, awaiting an answer.  All the attention makes her nervous, palms sweaty as she grips her dress.

 

Joan lightly bows her head, “Joan Snow my lady,” she says quietly and timidly.  It’s what everyone expects from her, so it is what she delivers.

 

“Oh, none of that nonsense, Maege is enough. I’m no more a lady than a bear in a skirt.” Dacey snorts at that while Alysane lets out a sharp laugh. “So what do they really call you?”

 

 _Bastard,_ Joan wishes to say, but that would be rude, and so far the Mormonts have been nothing but kind. “Some call me Jo my- Lady Maege,”

 

“Ah, well, welcome to Bear Island Jo. It’s an honor to have a child of House Stark under our care,” they smile warmly at her, Dacey giving her an assuring squeeze on the shoulder.

 

“These are my daughters, I’m sure my Dacey here has already told you of them.” Lady Maege lifted an eyebrow at the woman in question, to which she nodded in response. “Jory and Lyra here will escort you to your rooms after supper, you’ll be sharing a hall with them, not too far from the older girls.  In the meantime, I feel it’s my duty to show you around the keep, get you well acquainted with it, and hopefully, we’ll also get acquainted, yes?”

 

* * *

 

 

Lady Mormont wasn't like anyone. Not Lady Stark or Lady Glover, or the Manderly Sisters.  Not Beth Cassel or Jeyne Poole, nor Old Nan and most definitely not Septa Mordane. No one. Willful and proud, even for such a short woman. She spoke without filter, blunt and to the point. There were no guiding Joan’s words around her, the young girl learned soon enough. The woman seemed to smell faultiness from a mile away. And she loathed her nephew, for all that she loved him to death, and had no problems telling everyone who cared to hear as much.

 

She’d taken Joan in her solar after showing her around the keep, a small chamber compared to her lord father's, and laid down the rules. Strict yet reasonable. At the break of dawn, everyone was to be up and about, there would be no lazing about in bed, and their bed was to be fixed properly after waking up. After breaking fast everyone had a chore or task to attend to whether it be in the stables or kitchen. At noon lessons begin, starting from the training yard to the war chamber to the maesters solar. They'd get a basic learning, of course, letters and sums in all, but they'd learn everything else too. How to govern and rule over land and keep, battle tactics and war strategy,  ledgers, and taxes, stocks and storage. And Joan would be included. This wasn't a typical ladies education in the slightest, let alone a bastards. This was the education Robb was given, a lords education, and she would get it to. She would get to watch and learn as Maege held court, listening to the tidings of her people before resolving each issue accordingly, like father.

 

Though Lady Mormont did things differently from father. The woman never asked for counsel, like Ned Stark did, for Maege Mormont was sure of every decision and action she made. She never brought her crofters and fisherman into her halls to talk to them personally, but she did venture out of the keep to walk along the coast and work with her people, taking charge of a certain task and getting her hands dirty in the process. _‘Never trust a man whose hands are soft. You can always tell what type of person a man is from the way his hands feel’_ , was something Maege was prone to say. Joan wasn't really sure about that, but she listened, nodding her head.

 

It was all so queer. Lyra and Jorelle were like their elder sisters in a way, tall and buxom, and sometimes loud. They fought as well as they sewed clothes, making pretty brocades from the soft wool brought from White Harbor. They knew how to play the lady and the warrior, like Dacey.  Alysane was much different in that she was more like her mother. Nobody knows who fathered Lady Mormont’s children, and nobody knows who got Alysane with child either.

 

“It was a bear, I tell ya,” she says when Joan mistakenly-and perhaps bluntly-asks. The thought had been on her mind (for by all the laws of the land the Mormont’s should be considered bastards), even though she knew it was none of her business, and she had expected the woman to dismiss the question but instead, she said _that._ Laughing at Dacey’s perplexed expression all the while. The mere notion of what Alysane said made Joan stumble over her feet. They’d been making their way to the training yard, a large circular space surrounded by logs.

 

“I really wish you’d _stop_ telling people that nonsense,” the eldest shakes her head. “Don’t listen to any of it Jo. Aly just likes to mess with people’s heads,”

 

Alysane only ignores her sister, fixing Joan with a mischievous stare. “Us Mormont women are skinchangers, we can turn into bears when we want. And it was a bear who fathered my child,” she rubs her belly with a suresmile, striding away from them with a hearty laugh. It leaves them both stunned in her wake, Joan more so than Dacey.

 

The latter only sighs, “Sometimes I wonder about her.”

 

* * *

 

 

The summer days are long for all that it still feels brumal this close to the Lands of Always Winter. Cold and biting just like the island that sits in its mist. Joan had always pictured islands to be bright and sunny, with white sand and clear blue waters, butterflies and the fabled palm trees, with exotic people of dark skin and curly hair. Bear Island was the exact opposite of that expectation and yet she found it more comfortable, more familiar.

 

The people were kind, if a little stern and the Mormont’s were welcoming if a little poor. She sees it in the way they fret over food and money. More often than not, they send out hunting parties to track down bears for meat to eat and fur to sell. It's one of the things the island has in abundance, and Maege says there are some who’d pay a pretty penny for a thick cloak made from bearskin. Mainly the Night’s Watch, who are always in need of resources.

 

It was safe to say Jorah Mormont had left his family broke, squandering all of the precious little wealth they had on his southorn wife. How could a man be so selfish?

 

“Simple,” Dacey says when Jo ask. “He was a man in love. Now, enough of that, we need to work on that footwork of yours. It's piss poor.”

 

Joan still hasn't decided if she'd rather carry a spear or sword, so she was stuck with using a practice rod that would compensate for both. She was well acquainted with the ground, after two moons of being constantly knocked into it.  Her once pale skin was covered in purple bruises going yellow and the foul-smelling ointments she dosed them in.

 

Despite the constant defeat, she persisted on with a resilient spirit, as she did in all things.  But where it was mere play and practice for the others, it was competition for her. It was one of the many things she hated about herself. Always too serious and melancholy for a girl child, competitive when competitiveness was least appreciated. It pushes people away she knows, and she couldn't help but feel like one day she'll push the Mormonts away to. Like she did Robb and Sansa. _Or more like they did me,_ she thinks grumpily, overreaching with the thrust of her rod, giving Dacey an opportunity to smack her on the ribs with the flat of her shaft.

 

No amount of padding could lessen the pain she felt, but instead of falling to the dirt she stumbled back on the heels of her feet, before holding her ground, going into a light stance. She remembers Ser Rodrik telling the boys to look at their opponent's eyes to see where their intentions lie.

 

She still loses, but she lasts longer than before.

 

“A sword,” Dacey says after a long while.  They sit on the ground, drinking their fill of water, watching as the other’s go at each other. “A sword would suit you well, but you could always use a spear as a secondary weapon.”

 

Joan nods, feeling a little uncertain, “Okay.”

 

“Hey, Jo!” Jory strides to her, beaming with a bright smile after her victory over Lyra.  “Wanna go against me? You might last longer than she did.” the other girl lets out a loud chuckle, the kind Septa Mordane tries to lecture out of Sansa and Arya. Improper and unladylike, but Joan likes it because it’s real.

 

* * *

 

 

 

When nothing but snores and wind fill the halls, and the sky is at its darkest, she thinks of home. And how could she not, when she left on such a sour note? _I don’t want her to marry, I don’t want her to have children._ The words were like rot to her conscious, festering and spreading to the other wounds dealt. _Bastards are lecherous, lustful creatures, no morale no humanity. Especially the women._ She remembers a servant woman saying whilst the girl was carrying out her chores, within earshot, just so Joan could hear every word spewed. Who’d want to marry a bastard anyway?  She sees the way some men look at her when they think she isn't looking, recalls how Theon looked at her for all that she tried to ignore it. _They’d only want me for one thing._ But she was Ned Stark’s daughter, bastard or not. She’d never disgrace her house, her family, by succumbing to the pleasures of the flesh. The brothels were filled with bastard girls like her but she wouldn't become one of them, no matter what anyone said or what they expected her to be.  She’d stay a virgin for the rest of her life if she needed to, an old spinster like Old Nan in the halls of Winterfell, surrounded by nephews and nieces to care for. Or she could stay at Bear Island, become a master at arms like the older slight woman named Walla. Women were not limited at Bear Island.

 

They sleep in straw beds, with large bear furs to keep them warm. She shares a room with Lyra and Jorelle, but down the hall, she hears Alysane’s loud snoring. A terrible thing that, worse than any man's.  And then it abruptly stops, startling her a bit, before a painful cry replaces the brief silence.

 

Suddenly everyone is up and about, flying out of their beds to follow the screams. Things become almost climatic, with the younger girls looking lost and confused despite Dacey and Maege’s insistence that they come along to lend a hand in Alysane giving birth.  What they expect them to do, Joan does not know but she follows along anyhow.

 

Apparently,  Alysane’s water had broken in her sleep and has just now started to feel the true might of labor pains.

 

The room is to small for all the people crowded in it, too small for the midwife, the Mormonts and Joan, the maester and a few serving girls. Or at least that’s how it feels for Joan, to the point she can hardly breathe.   _Why did they bring me along again?_

 

The bed is soaked in blood, rich and red like wine, and the smell of it is powerful.  Almost as powerful as Alysane’s cries. War cries in truth. Her plump face was red and caked in sweat, and every few seconds a curse slipped from her mouth. Joan, Jory, and Lyra were ordered to refill the basins of water and dump the bloody ones out, while Maege and Dacey stayed by the bedside with Maester Hugar and Midwife Ellya, assisting in the labor.  The serving girls were tasked with making doses of milk of the poppy, however much Aly would need.

 

The entire experience wasn't anything Joan’s ever experienced before, not even when her younger siblings were born.  She always saw them after the fact, a few weeks time before she was allowed to see them. She vaguely remembers Robb being just as worried as father, pacing back and forth as they heard muffled screaming through the thick walls but...that was it.

 

Septa Mordane, Nan and Lady Stark had all talked with her about childbed, about how it was a battle, but she’s come to a sudden realization that she knew little to nothing about it.  Childbed is a battle was simply not enough to grasp the scope of a woman slowly and painfully bringing life into the world. And Joan was forced to watch every moment. It was terrifying and beautiful, but mostly terrifying.  

 

This is what the world wanted from her. If she wouldn't sacrifice her pride she’d have to sacrifice her body, would have to split her womb in half to give life, a sacrifice within itself. The thought was scary and yet magical, powerful.  How could men ever think a woman weak after seeing something so magnificent? And then she remembers most men don’t see, save the maesters.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a girl, a red plump babe with the vibrant blue eyes passed on from a stranger and the dark inky hair of her mother.  

 

Alysane looked softer somehow, whenever she looked upon her child suckling at her breast.  “She’s so quiet unless she gets hungry and she never bites at me when I feed her,”

 

“I was a quiet babe too,” father had always told her so.

 

“I guess that stretched on into girlhood, because you never speak a peep when you don’t have to,” Dacey said, chuckling after.  She sat at the bedside, gazing down at her niece with a soft smile, Lady Maege standing behind her. The room was clear of everyone save the Mormonts and the Snow.

 

“Your grandmother was much the same, you know,” Maege spoke after a while.  Joan looked up at that. She knew little of her grandmother, father rarely spoke of the family he had in childhood. Everything she knew of her father’s family was from Maester Luwin’s lessons.

 

“My grandmother?” she lightly inquired, curious.

 

“Yes, ole Lyarra Stark. She’d been quiet in her youth, sweet and pretty and calm,” Maege smiled in remembrance. “You look much like her, much like your aunt to though you don’t have the fire that little Lyanna had. A true she-wolf, that one had been, I named my own daughter after her. She’ll be a she-bear.” Lyanna’s name was practically forbidden in her father’s castle, for everyone knew the tale that warranted such suppression. Only in whisper did people dare utter the name. It was such a surprise to hear it out loud. Even more to hear it without so much pain and sorrow entwined with it.

 

She wished to ask more but thought better of it.  Father would probably not like it if she did. _Father isn't here,_ she thought. But...no. Aunt Lyanna makes father sad, and she had heard he’d been close to his mother as a child.

 

“That’s it then,” Alysane started. “Lyarra, yes, Lyarra for my babe. A proper northern name, for a sweet and calm girl. Lyarra of House Mormont,”

 

“To Lyarra of House Mormont!” Jory shouted, Lyra following suit, nudging at Joan to join in. And she did, smiling awkwardly all the while.

 

Later that night she hears no snoring, but she hears the light creaking of the hall where their rooms dwell, Alysane’s own footsteps, sneaking out of the keep. Perhaps to her lover, the father of her child, the stranger with the blue eyes.  No one else hears it, but Joan does.

* * *

 

 

The year comes to its end as the next is brought anew and with it her thirteenth name day. Lyra is two years older than she is, and Jorelle, or Jory as they are wont to call her, is only a year older.  But the three grow close despite the little gaps, as close as Joan will let them be of course, but close enough. Though the trio’s friendship could never prevail over the bond she’d formed with Dacey. The woman was like the big sister she never had, to a certain degree.  Someone to look up to, to aspire to be. She filled a small portion of the female presence that was lacking in Joan’s life. She’d never be a surrogate mother, Joan cringed at the mere thought of it, and she’d never replace Arya, but she was something.

 

They sat on a small rowboat, a long wooden device with two curved arches at the ends. Dacey had been teaching her the ways of ice fishing in the bay, floating past the ice flowers that twirled in the depths.

 

It was a beautiful sight, for the sun created golden ripples on the water's surface, crystallizing all the ice, and the light peaked through the clouds, exposing a clear sky.  The air tasted fresh and salty on her tongue, crisp and cold in her lungs.

 

“Tis a beautiful day,”

 

“Aye, that it is,” Dacey smiled, licking her dry lips.  Her long hair was braided in a fishtail plait thrown over her shoulder, with bronze hair cuffs woven in. Joan’s own hair was mostly down, with two braids woven together down the center of her head.  

 

Her friend looked stunning, a true northern beauty. Her face reddened but she blamed it on the cold.

 

“We’ll have a hearty meal tonight that’s for sure. Fat fresh salmon and slices of juicy bear with a side of turnips, and sweet cakes for dessert,” Dacey sighed in content.

 

Joan had to stifle a laugh.  It would come as a surprise to some that out of all the Mormonts, Dacey was the fondest of food.

 

They sat in relative, comfortable silence, watching as other boats and fisherman passed by. It was a habit of Joan’s, to slip into deep thought for paces at a time, and Dacey had long grown used to it. Several moons have passed since she’d left Winterfell, and yet it felt a lifetime. She was three and ten now, growing a woman’s body, so close to being a woman grown.  It was strange how much one’s life could change in such little time.

 

Joan trained with a sword now, a blunted practice blade, instead of practice arrows. She was learning more than she ever had at Winterfell, under the tutelage of Maege Mormont and her eldest daughters, and better yet she felt...well, she wouldn't exactly say comfortable.  She did have her moments and so did they but fostering with the Mormonts had not turned out to be so hectic or hostile. She could be herself, if only a little, with them. Jory and Lyra liked the way she played the harp, just like Arya, requesting songs to dance to when the afternoons are free of chores and lessons. Sometimes she danced along with them, their crude voices rising in synchronicity over little Lyanna’s giggles and gasp, bright red weirwood leaves falling around them as their dress hems scurry the moist ground, spinning and spinning to their heart's content.  The scene often left her bewitched and feeling light inside. Dacey talked to her, really talked to her and Joan was content with listening, and Alysane had a strange way of making the shy girl smile once every so often, while Maege was like the aunt she never had.

 

It all fit together perfectly, and she told her father as much, whenever she had the chance to write.  Whenever he responds, he always makes sure to tell her about home, how everyone fares. Then he asks about her, semi fretting like an old maid, inquiring about her daily routine and how the Mormont’s are treating her. Fair, she responds, and that’s all she’s ever wanted.

 

The day carries on peacefully until the grey clouds fill the sky and block out the warm sun. A horn blew in the distance as the wind kicked up and the sea began to rock instead of sway, calling them back to the shore and away from the slowly awakening waters. A storm was coming.

 

* * *

 

 

The rains pour down hard and strong as the clouds hang over Bear Island almost ominously.  The day had started off in morning gloominess to the rare summer sun, but now it was dark and dreary, and a storm like nothing Joan’s ever seen raged outside.  But she wasn't afraid of it, it was just rain after all, and thunder and cloud. What she was afraid of is the ocean. The way its waters crashed angrily against the rocky shores, and how the tides rose higher and higher. Like the sea would only be content once it swallowed the island whole. The dogs in the kennels barked in challenge while the horses neighed their discontent.

 

Crofters and fisherman huddled up in their cottages, praying to the gods that the tides don’t reach any further.  Though, the madder wished to test the gods, claiming that a storm was the perfect time to catch fish. _Mad fools,_ Alysane calls them.

 

Winter is Coming, but Maege only tells her it’s a summer storm that will soon pass. That Bear Island has stood for thousands of years and will stand for a thousand more. _I bet the Valyrians said the same thing,_ she thought warily.  The gods have always been cruel to her but surely they wouldn't be as cruel as to do that. She couldn't even go out to pray on it.

 

She sighed, slumping in the small nook by the window in her chamber, gazing down at the rushing river and creaking branches, the violent waterfalls not too far away from that.  For all that the keep was small compared to Winterfell, it was wide and extensive in its own way, and it felt deathly silent. She felt isolated and alone. Maege, Dacey, and Alysane were busy dealing with the storm outside.  Getting stranded small folk inside the keep, dragging the fisherman back to shore and serving bowls of stew. Putting hay and clay rags in the outer thresholds. They’d already covered up certain spots on the roof where it was bound to leak, earlier when the storm was still ways away, putting boards over the chimneys to the hearth.  Jory and Lyra were taking advantage of the free time, sleeping in of all the things, while little Lyanna and Lyarra stayed in the nursery with the nan.

 

Boom. The thunder clapped loudly, letting its presence be known once again, letting them know it wasn't going away anytime soon.  It would be a long night.

 

Her eyelids grew heavy by the hour, despite how hard she tried to fight against it.  But as it always does, sleep prevailed and she fell into its lull.

 

She was at the crypts of Winterfell again.  It was cold and uninviting and dark and she felt as if she couldn't breathe as she slowly made her way down. Something was suffocating her, stealing the breath from her very lungs. Every instinct was telling the girl to run away, to flee instead of fight.  Whatever pulled her down there, it was to be reckoned with. Still, she persisted on, descending further down the spiraling steps. When she finally did reach the end the Kings of Winter loomed above her, with their hard granite faces on their hard granite thrones gripping their hard granite swords with their hard granite wolves. The animals snarled at the invasion while their master's eyes followed her with their hard, hard eyes. Glares so hot they burned into the skin. A hot bubbling hatred. She felt naked, only to look down and see that she was. Her belly full with something, breast swollen and wet. The lump looked uncanny on her small body. Shame clouded her mind and she wanted to do nothing more than cower and hide.

 

 _You are no Stark, you don’t belong here girl._ They began to whisper. It was harsh and slick, like a hissing snake. _You shouldn't be down here, this isn't your place.  Go away, we don't want you here._ Their voices rose in chorus, and now they were shouting. It petrified her, as cold as stone, but her head seared with a burning sensation. It was the lack of air, she couldn't breathe, and her stomach came to life, threatening to tear her from the inside out. Blood stained her thighs. It hurt something terrible, how did it come to this?  She would die if she went any further, and she was afraid of what else might be lurking in the dark. So she turned around, away from whatever it was that called for her. The voices followed as she ran up the stairs, a deafening cry of _You are no Stark!_ The stairs were endless. She felt trapped there, the walls were closing in on her, she could feel the coolness scraping against her skin. Gods help her she couldn't see she couldn't breathe she couldn't think she couldn't even leave. Perhaps she had gone up the wrong stairs? Something pulled at her then, twisting and tugging her ankle. A strong force that couldn't be cast away or ignored. It’s touch burned her skin. _Come back, you must come back,_ it spoke. _No, I don’t want to!_ She kicked and screamed and cried until the taste of iron filled her throat, but it didn't listen.  Instead, it dragged her back down to the dark. Her nails dug at the steps in desperation, cracking and bleeding, body splitting into two all the while.   _But you must,_ it replied. _You must know._

 

Joan woke with a sudden jolt, gripping her own tunic with shaky hands, gasping for air. Her brow glistened with sweat and her body tingled with a prickling cool. The dogs still howled in their kennels, it still rained and poured, and the river rushed with an abundance of water. Bear Island. She wasn't at Winterfell, nowhere near the crypts but at Bear Island. Tis only a dream. Her stomach was flat and hard, instead of round and soft, and her breast didn't hang like ripe fruit. She pulled up her breeches to look at her ankles.  It was nothing save bruises from practice. All was normal.

 

The dream was a recurring one, dark and perverse, but it was only that. Just a dream, a horrible horrible dream. What lay at sea was the true threat, the ocean could swallow the island whole if it wanted.  She should be having nightmares about that instead. What was she so afraid of that would make her dream such horrific things?

 

A horn sounded off, startling her. Even the storm quieted. Then another sounded off, then another and another, all at once. She could hear shouts over the storm, loud and thunderous. Walla and Maege perhaps. Why were they screaming? Was she still dreaming?  She pinched herself to be sure and found that she, in fact, was not dreaming.

 

She jumped off the cushion, leaving her chamber. Her stride was fast and wary. “Jory!” she called. “Lyra! Dacey!” no response. The dark walls were suddenly illuminated by lightning from the windows in the corridor, painting the floor white before going black again. She felt as if something were watching her, hiding in the dark of the empty chambers. _Go back to your room,_ her mind warned. _Go back to your room now._ She rebounded down the hall, going to her chamber before locking it with a loud thud.

 

The dogs no longer howled, the horns no longer blew, and the storm was little more than a distant background.  Only the sound of her racing heart resonated in her ears, and the heavy sound of footsteps down the hall, slowly nearing her door.   _Clink, clink,_ went the armor. The floorboards creaked in response to the heavyweight. All she could do was stand there in frozen terror. The knob twisted and turned, but she’d locked it early on. Once the intruder realized that, he began to bang on the door. Over and over again to the point where she thought it would give in.

 

They were being invaded, she realized with a sudden clarity. Was it the wildlings? They were so close, just a boats ride away. Or the ironborn? They were known for pillaging Bear Island, Theon told her as much, a disgusting smirk on his face.  

 

The rusted hinges grew weaker, the screws gradually coming undone. The wooden board in the iron brackets jutted, threatening to break free.

 

She grabbed her bow and an arrow lounging in the corner. It’s been moons since she’s picked it up and she wasn't even sure if she knew how to use one anymore, but she needed something.

 

Why was this man so eager to get inside?  What did he want? She recalls the talk the septa, Old Nan and Lady Stark gave her after receiving her moon's blood. She shuddered, that was only supposed to be between a man and a woman who were married.  Maybe he wanted to kill her? Maybe he wanted both. She wanted to weep but even the thought of making noise terrified her.

 

 _Please just go away, please just leave me alone._ The door swung open, slamming against the wall. He towered in the doorway, pale milky skin and red, red hair that seemed to burn bright like fire in the night, clad in fur and steel. He stared at her in a way that made her quiver, his eyes as grey as steel, a smile on his face. Those eyes, those eyes, gods help her those eyes. Theon looked at her that way. No one should be looking at her that way, she was just a child, a child. Everyone told her as much.

 

He stepped forward and she nooked her arrow, he laughed at the pitiful sight as she drew the arrow back, and came down on her when it missed. She screamed something terrible when he did. _No, no, no,_ she screamed, beating against his hard chest, fighting against his wandering hands. _No, please no._

 

She woke with a start, screaming _no_ into her pillow as someone shook her. “Jo! Joan!” it was Dacey. It wasn't real, none of it was real.  Only a dream. A dream within a dream. How could she be so sure? She slowly lifted up from her pillow, eyes bleary with tears. She didn't have a chance to look at the woman’s face before she was enveloped in a warm embrace.

 

“It’s alright Jo,” she said, smoothing the girls head soothingly. “None of it was real,”

 

The girl had no choice but to believe her, clinging to the woman’s form tightly. None of it was real.

 

* * *

 

Joan still couldn't shake off the nightmare, despite having had it a fortnight ago. She’d been very exclusive with the details within the dream, whenever anyone asked what scared her so, but she had mentioned a storm, checking to see if that had been real. According to Dacey, it was.

 

“Your screams woke half the castle, you know?” the heiress claimed after practice.  “You gave mother a terrible fright. She’d thought something happened to you...Whatever it was Jo, you know you can tell me right? I know it’s on your mind, you can barely concentrate during practice.”

 

Joan’s newly attained bruises could attest to that. What could she tell the woman without sounding completely mad? That she’d dreamed of a wildling stranger stealing into her room or the haunted dark crypts of her home? Grey eyes burning with hunger and... _something_. No, this was _something_ she’d have to keep to herself.

 

“It was nothing,” she smiled convincingly. “Just Old Nan’s stories coming back to haunt me,” that was half truth and half lie. She remembers the old woman telling her tales of wildlings stealing girl children in the night.

 

“Alright then,” Dacey reluctantly conceded. “Just try to concentrate more or I’ll ring your head like a bell.” she mussed Joan’s hair, making the girl laugh.

 

The laughter stopped when Walla entered the yard. “Joan Snow, Maege wishes to speak with ya.” the girl stood and the heiress made to follow. “Alone,” Walla added.

 

* * *

 

The great hall was empty of much of everyone, save Maege and herself. The older woman sat upon her bear seat, reading from a parchment.

 

“Lady Maege?” she called after a while. She’d been standing there for a good minute.  The gnarly woman looked up, before rising from her seat to pass the girl the parchment in question.

 

“This is from your lord father, he wants to know your thought on the matter so I think it’s only fair you read it yourself. ”

 

The sight of the white parchment left her at unease, but she took it anyway, reading its contents.

 

_294 AC_

_To Lady Maege of House Mormont,_

 

_How does everything fare? I’d like to give you my thanks for not only what you’ve done for me but for Joan. She writes home often, and claims you treat her well and fair, and that’s all I could’ve asked for.  Still, there are other matters at hand that I wish to discuss with you in regards to my natural daughter. Marriage, being among them. I’ve received a good amount of offers, all respected northern houses, but the most favorable of them all is the one with House Umber.  I can’t specify what said prospect is that makes the match favorable, for nothing is final at the moment, but I wanted to know your opinion on the matter and most of all her’s. Hopefully, we’ll discuss more in the future._

 

_Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North._

 

She repeatedly read it over, the words never truly digesting until the fifth read. Her hands were shaking, but she didn't quite know why or how she should feel. Afraid perhaps? Angry but for what? This is something most bastard girls can only dream of. For a father to care enough for his natural daughters future, even a little, it was something completely unheard of in most places north of Dorne.  And the Umber’s...theirs was a proud, old and noble house. She should be jumping in glee right now. Yes, she’d be given a name, a home and a family of her own. She should be happy and yet the thought only filled her with a sense of queer. The thought of leaving Bear Island, then Winterfell after, the thought of mass change scared her.

 

“So, what is it then?” Maege inquired, arms crossed.

 

“I-I am grateful. I truly am, most aren't as lucky as I am.”

 

“But?”

 

Joan pondered for a moment before shaking her head. “But nothing, it is what it is.” It was a reason her father directed the letter to Maege instead of herself. She didn't really have a choice in this, and so what she said, what she felt, didn’t truly matter. “I’ll do what my father bids regardless.”

 

“Do you take your father for that kind of man?” the question held no judgment, just curiosity.

 

“No, it’s not that. Father...he wouldn't force me if he didn't have to...it’s just the way things are.”

 

“Huh, very well then.”

 

* * *

 

 

That was the last time Maege shared any of the correspondence, though she did keep Joan semi-informed of what was going on.  Telling her of each offer her father was mulling over, of the dowry being set up and how she should be starting on her trousseau very soon.

 

“Lord Karstark’s sons were already men grown, or at least near it when you were born.  But House Karstark is a cadet branch of House Stark, practically family and Lord Rickard is loyal.  They’d treat you right.” they went over all the northern houses her father was considering to marry her into, each one having their set of pros and cons. “But, SmallJon is of an age with you, and you’d be the lady of the house once lordship passes over to him.”

 

The offers weren't many. A few cousins from House Flint and other mountain clans, an heir from Cerywn and Hornwood. Some second sons and noble cousins from Tallhart and Ryswell.  

 

According to Maege, some of those offers are heirs, but Joan knows that they only offered because House Umber did first, and as to not offend her father they offered their heirs as well.  She has no doubt they’re all praying to the Old Gods that her father doesn't accept. So she had to choose wisely, lest she end up with a future husband and family that despise her for the rest of her days.

 

Her great-grandmother was a Flint, and it is she who Joan owes her long dark curls to. Lord Flint has two sons, perhaps she could marry the second? She should strive for second sons, maybe even third sons to play safe. Joan didn't wish to appear an overreaching bastard. Mayhaps she shouldn't go for noble houses at all, perhaps a wealthy merchant or-or no one at all. She didn't want to marry anyone, not truly.  She would have been content with remaining an unwed bastard girl, living out the rest of her days at Bear Island or Winterfell as an old maid. _Lady Stark would like that,_ the very thought is the only thing that keeps her from writing her father to tell him as much because a part of her thinks he actually might listen.  He’d be forced to let Sansa and Arya go, then Bran and Rickon, but he could hold onto her and Robb forever.

 

She wanted to be close to Winterfell anyhow.  Maege told her of unforgiving lords, angry and vengeful for whatever reason, that some wouldn't hesitate to take that out on her.  Maege also said that was what teeth and nails were for, a dagger to if she’d ever had need of one. It would be in her best interest to stay as close to Winterfell as possible, marry into a house that she knows is loyal to House Stark with an absolute certainty, and Joan herself thinks a second or third son would be better suited for her. She wasn't born to be a lady after all.  Lord Umber has many sons, Lord Karstark has three, and both houses are near Winterfell and loyal to House Stark. At least she thinks so.

 

 

 She hated thinking that way and yet the truth is often a bitter fruit. Joan had to marry because if there were any other options she’s sure her father would choose it.  But the truth of the matter is, is that father won't be here forever, and Robb can’t be everywhere. Marriage offers protection, security and safety most bastard girls aren't provided. Joan just so happened to be apart of the lucky few.

* * *

 

 

The days seemed to grow shorter, the nights longer and the terrors of her conscious seemed to consume her. It always started at the mouth of the crypt and ended up in a chamber-sometimes her old one at Winterfell and most times her chamber in the Mormont Keep- rusted hinges creaking and nails slowly unscrewing. Lustful eyes and wandering hands tearing her asunder.

 

It was up to the point where she dreaded returning to Winterfell. It had been decided, much to her chagrin. After moons of negotiation and correspondence, her caretakers had come to a decision and settled for House Umber. Last Hearth was closer to Winterfell than the Karhold, and after GreatJon Umber, SmallJon would ascend as its lord and Joan its lady. Which would likely be years from now, giving her time to adjust.  Sure, there was some politics to it that she was most likely made oblivious to, but those were the main reasons. Six and ten. She had until her six and ten nameday before she was married off. That gave her three years of freedom and she planned to spend them wisely, training with sword and learning all her mind could digest. Perhaps even laughing and playing and dancing and singing like a child of summer for a change.  Now if only the days could stop flying by.

 

* * *

 

 

**  Daeron **

 

 

Dany woke up in a haze, his mind a flurry of obscured visions. It had seemed like only a dream until he felt the piercing reminder of a headache from the poppy forced down his throat. Chains weighed heavily on his small wrist, one arm dangling from the wall, a burning strain running up and down his muscles, and his feet were bound and mouth gagged.

 

Had it truly been necessary or was it for the effect, for the thrill of forcing him into slavery? Danny had never known a hurt like this, not when they were forced out of the big house with the red door or when Viserys beat him every night to release his hate and anger. Not even when they lingered on the foreign streets, sleeping in gutters and finding food in the form of leftover scraps.

 

The betrayal was even greater, knowing that his brother condoned it, knowing he advocated it. _A debt must be paid, little brother. I am a king after all, and a king's servants must always repay their debts._ He could still see his brothers form in his delirium, the rich crimson robe-like tunic he adorned standing out vibrantly in the dark pit of Dany’s memories. A lively smile playing on his lips. Danny had never known Viserys to smile, to be so jubilant and thriving. I'm doing this for us Dany, so we can go home. But home was west not east, and Danny had never known the home west besides.

 

_Please, Viserys,_ he had begged, he had pleaded as he fruitlessly tried to claw his way through a wall of trained Unsullied. Tears had streaked his face then and air relentlessly found his lungs with each hiccup and heave, but now Daeron had none to offer.

 

Saltwater leaked from the cracks above him, dripping from the ceiling and onto his face. The liquid stung at his eyes.

 

He couldn't tell if it was night or day, or how long he's been in a deep coma sleeping on the stone floor. His head continuously throbbed, and he began to rail against his bondage in the wake of pain and frustration. Everything was cold and dark and damp, and he felt like a criminal just before the trial and execution. Viserys once told him that Maegor the Cruel, one of their wise ancestors, had made a labyrinth of dungeons to house the most sinister criminals and just below that layers of infinite tunnels yet explored. For all that the dungeon was damp and his clothes were anything but dry, the cell reeked with the swell of humidity and an uncomfortable warmth that settled onto his skin.

 

The sound of footsteps falling in sync resonated down the halls loudly. The chiming of keys is what truly garners his adept attention, and his eyes fly to the cell door. A golden-hued light seeps past the threshold and he hears hushed whispering bouncing off the wall.

 

He straightened his spine with a groan of discomfort, lifting the weight pulling down his shoulder as the door swung open.

 

The voices were clear now, though Dany couldn't decipher even a bit of their speech. It was like that of a hissing snake, as if the two men weren't using words at all. While one was garbed in light robes of silk, with intricate designs of fabric wrapped around his abdomen all attached to a large circular ringlet, the other wore nearly nothing at all. The man in question was bald, and even in the dark Dany could see the long gnarled scar that lined the man's head. The only steal he carried on his person was a spear, and his face was pensive. Dany remorsefully guesses he is a slave, and can only imagine why he himself is chained up to a wall in a secluded cell. Viserys wouldn't truly? But the truth of it was as stark as day. But I am his heir? Better yet, I am his brother, his blood.

 

Surely Viserys will come back, surely he will not forget me and come back. All Dany would have to do is bide time. After all, he was the blood of the dragon, the heir to the Iron Throne, and Viserys little brother. Doubts still lingered after his reassuring thoughts, slowly pulling at its lose string.

 

The man with robes began to saunter toward him, before cocking his head to the side. He inspected the young boy how one would inspect a strange insect, before crushing it beneath their heel.

 

A smile etched its way onto the man's sharp features, the torchlight reflecting on his face. “There’s certainly no mistaking you with that hair or those eyes,”

 

Dany gathered all the courage his little body could muster before responding, “Who are you?,” he hated how his voice squeaked out, proof of his youth and immaturity Viserys would often say. And at the thought of his brother his the feelings of fear and obsolete turned into a stern sorrow and gloominess. “And where am I?” it came out bolder than before, mild surprise dancing across the mans face before slipping back into the detached interest and impassiveness.

 

“I,” the man's ringed hand gracefully gestured toward himself, “am your master, and you will speak to me accordingly unless you wish to be punished. And where you are is of no concern, you are here for one thing and one thing only, to serve and fight, and you will be treated thus. So I advise you to get any notions of special treatment out of your head, the little that is probably in there.”

 

Dany had never heard someone sound so haughty, not even Viserys. The man looked down at him, as if he was below him, not even worth the dirt beneath his sandals. “You are little more than an inbred beast, a broken remnant of a broken dynasty, and now a slave. Do not forget what you are while you are here,”

 

Each word crawled beneath his skin, digging at the one thing Dany somehow managed to preserve throughout the years of his life. His pride. By what right does this man call him his master, label him a slave and an inbred beast in one sentence? Dany spat at him, the spittle soaring through the air before landing on the man's face. “I am the blood of the dragon,”

 

The slave beside the master swallowed, alarmed, but not because of Dany. No, only for Dany, and soon cold rage transitioned into that of dread. Why did he look so alarmed?

 

The master slowly wiped it off with his sleeve, an uncanny chuckle passing his lips, a dark essence making his eyes glisten like onyx. He turned to the man standing next to him, the one who closed his eyes seemingly pained, as the master spoke words onto him. He sounded like a hissing snake again.

 

The master slowly uncovered a whip from his side, turning to Dany, and the young boy felt his stomach flip. But what galed him more, what truly terrified his spirit and filled his soul with trepidation, was when he passed the whip to the slave. An unspoken command, loud enough for everyone to hear.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dany had tried to fight back, had tried to rail against his chains only to be flipped onto his stomach. The slaves trembling hands had torn at Dany’s tattered tunic, exposing his bare back already riddled with bruises from Viserys unforgiving hands. The master had chuckled at that, had laughed at the irony. “It seems your brother has already done some work on you, though not enough. Zegh here, will remedy that,”

 

 

 

A dozen lashes, and with each one it felt like a thousand more were waiting for him. A lifetime worth of pain and blood that outmatched every blow Viserys landed on his body with the little thin twig. Oh, how Dany had wished for that instead, had wished it were Viserys instead. At least he would be able to reconcile with the perpetrator. Because after the beating, Viserys would make sure a roof remained over his head and food in his belly. Dany doesn't think these men care about him at all. With Viserys he could forgive his brother's wrath, but with strangers, all he felt was unadulterated hate. His heart was a roaring coal, thriving from the flames of loath and contempt, burning hotly in his chest.

 

Blood had run down his back like red rivers, open welts covering it how vines cover a wall. Dany vaguely wonders if his cries had been heard down the dungeons hall. If the gaolers, guards, and slaves heard his cries of pain and agony, with the way they now all looked at him as he walked past. Some had pity in their eyes, while others wore smirks on their faces. What had Dany done to them? For them to prize his pain?

 

Unsullied guards flanked the master, while seasoned slaves flanked him. Each step seemed to take a day of off his life, and even the soft breeze couldn't ease his pain. If anything it made it worse. The false peacefulness and serenity. They walked through ancient like halls that still held an elegance to it, his bare feet exposed on the simpering hot ground. Then suddenly a hand was on his tender shoulder, startling him. It was another slave, with skin as dark as mahogany, “Keep your head dow, and don't make eye contact. Do not speak unless spoken to, if you want to survive,” and then he fell back in pace with the others, almost disappearing. He regarded the man suspiciously before looking back ahead, contemplating. The sound of his chains chiming rung in his ear.

 

Dany put his head down, but his eyes were still mindful of his surroundings.

 

The walkway soon opened up to an old arena, with hot orange sand, and Dany silently mourned the soles of his feet. The seats and steps in the isles were broken and cracked, no longer usable, while the yard was filled with equipment. Swords, slings, spears, and arrows. The yard erupted with the sounds of clashing swords and heavy grunts. Each men drilling the other in, their skin cloaked in layers of sweat and blood. This was merely practice, Dany could only imagine how it would be in a live arena. And not one of them thought to turn their weapons on the guards and masters instead of each other.

 

A pavillion sat at the mouth of another walkway, crowded with slave girls moving to and fro, pouring wine and serving food to the many spectators. Then there was a litter, resting on the backs of about a dozen men, carrying a man larger than all of them put together. As he came closer he could see the rolls of fat through the silken robes that stuck to the man's skin, and the chin that nearly reached the man's chest, jiggling like jelly with every movement. The large girth of his stomach stood out distinctly in the sapphire tokar, and his bald head shined like a copper penny. His beard held elaborate designs of braids, his sideburns swooped and styled.

 

When he finally noticed the approaching party, he smiled a yellow smile, along with the small court with him. Though once his eyes landed on Dany, it drastically disappeared, and the lords began to silently whisper. He rose from his seat, a frown on his face and a foreign curse on his lips. The moment the two masters made contact they engaged in a hushed argument, the older man seemingly displeased with the other.

 

“I told you to leave the Valyrian unscathed,” were his words in a bastard Valyrian, one Dany wasn't too unfamiliar with, while the rest remained in the snake-like tongue. The younger countered the older with drastic movements toward Daeron and anger in his voice. In the light of day, compared to the fat master, he couldn't have been older than Viserys. The robes and wealth he carried on his person, however, made him look far older.

 

The young master then grabbed the rope connected to Dany’s chain before yanking down on it hard, pulling Daeron to his knees. Dany remembered to keep his head down and eyes mindful.

 

A greasy hand gently fell upon his face, though it wasn't an act of kindness. The man inspected him just like the young master did, only except he didn't stare at Dany as if he wanted to crush him, but collect him. A prized possession to be placed in the numerous selection of rare creatures.

 

“Ah, you will make me lots of money my boy.” he happily exclaimed in his bastard Valyrian, his chin rippling like waves as he threw his head back in laughter.

 

* * *

For the first time that day he was free from the weight of chains on his wrist.

 

They have him bathed in a large wooden bath, the water cool on his skin, before drenching him in horrid smelling oils. A girl named Narath puts salt and wine into the welts on his back, making him bite back hisses and hollers, before she properly bandaged the wounds with scraps of clean rags. The slave girls did their work attentively and diligent, completely unbothered by his nakedness, as if they did it hundreds of times and then other things far worse.

 

They dressed him in a thin linen tunic and worn leather breeches, with sandals laced all the way to his knee. A slave boy painted a dark dragon on his tunic, with a chain around the beast neck. Then after, the focus was on his hair, something he admittedly took pride in. No matter how much he protested against it they proceeded on, fearing the wrath of their master more than they feared him.

 

Long locks of silver gold fell like raindrops at his feet with each slice of the blade, until he was nearly bald. He felt like a lion without its mane.

 

When he was deemed presentable enough he was placed in front of the masters again, like a spectacle, a mummer about to perform some folly. “From now on your name is no longer Daeron of House Targaryen, from this point on you are a slave in training, and Dyni will be your name.” the young master, Master Ozel no Faer was his name, uttered with barely veiled contempt. “I’m sure you know the meaning of the word,”

 

Daeron knew the meaning. They mean to call him beast. “I must make quite the fright in my chains,”

 

For a moment he thought the young master would strike him, but instead, he sneered, “It’s only proper for an animal to be chained, little boy,”

 

The Fat Master waved a hand of dismissal, “It is only for show, the people love a good show, and a show must have a good name. I heard you put up quite the fight before you got here, let's hope you do the same within the pits,” beads of sweat rolled down his face, the slave girls attempts at cooling him with feathered fans futile. “But first, you must train. I expect you to rise before the break of dawn, with your new brothers, and head out to the arena where you will test every weapon and see where your strengths and weaknesses lie. Master Gazdan told me you were quite good with a sword,” he lifted an inquisitive brow, his face rising with it. “I hope that’s true,” and then another yellow smile before the Fat Master dismissed him altogether.

 

The slaves that had flanked him when he walked out to the arena flanked him again, only this time they weren't as still as statues. They seemed more alive now, more human, arguing and jesting and holding conversations. Some even walked silently with smiles on their faces, as if in peace. Meanwhile, all Dany could feel was wistful indifference. They were used to this life and perhaps grew to love it. But all Dany wanted was home and a family, ones that wouldn't sell him for profit. The big house with the red door came to mind and the large lemon tree that had been outside his window.

 

“It gets better after a while,” a thick familiar accent drew him out of reverie. It was the same man, or perhaps boy now that Dany studies him, from earlier.

 

“It’s you again,” the mahogany boy smiled at that, his teeth standing out starkly in the dark halls. Dany had never seen anyone else besides him and Viserys with teeth so white or straight. Though the mahogany boys teeth were seemingly larger, stronger, like that of a horse.

 

“Yes, that it is my Valyrian friend. My name is Black Mare,” Dany was tall for his age, but Black Mare was a head taller. A ridiculous name, he thought. Dany would laugh at the absurdity of it if he had a care to smile-let alone laugh.

 

He hesitated before responding, “My name is Daeron, but I guess you can call me Dany,” he paused for a moment. “Why did you care to help me this earlier?”

 

The boy simply shrugged, “A slave from a city in Slaver's Bay told me to. He doesn't speak the Common Tongue. I think he felt bad for what he did to you,” that sent a shiver down Dany’s back, the same one that the scarred man so thoroughly marked. They turned down another hall, walking in silence while chatter passed easily for those around them.

 

“I’m sorry you had to start out that way,” Mare sounded genuine enough, so Dany let himself believe the boy was truly sorry. “Master Ozel isn't known for his kindness. If you give him a reason, he won't hesitate to punish. The Good Master who owns us, however, is kind when he wants to be, well, if you make him lots of coin that is.” he finished sheepishly. “But he seems to like you, and you haven't made him anything yet! So that should be good,” he smiled with surety, as if it was supposed to make Dany feel any better.

 

They entered a hall full of cells, with hard bunks and hay beds to sleep upon. Black Mare beckoned him to follow, “I haven't had someone to share this cold cell with me in weeks,” it seemed natural to the Summer Islander, to sleep within a cell, a cage. He climbed a wooden ladder, making his way to the top bunk. “It may not seem like much but we are the lucky ones, my friend. I’ve seen far worse,” Dany had seen worse too, but he remained silent in front of the cell door. And with that Mare laid down, a stillness falling over the cell as Dany began to hear light snores.

 

Dany reluctantly walked into the dark cell, sitting at the edge of the bottom bunk. His shoulders slumped immediately, exhausted. It was a long day, so long, and it was only the very first of many. All the woes of his life seemed to stack against him, rising higher with each year, and he was only eleven. He rested his head on the makeshift mattress and dreamed of better days.

* * *

 

“What the hell is wrong with you!” the shock of water poured onto Dany as he slept had stunned him into brief silence for a good moment, but now his wits have returned. Enough to curse the perpetrator out. He wiped his face with his sleeve before rising.

 

When his vision cleared he looked up at the man holding the bucket and was nearly paralyzed with fear and anger. Zegh stood before him, and he could feel the twelve welts on his backache in remembrance.

 

“It’s alright Dany, he was just waking you up, any later and you’d have to deal with Master Ozel” Black Mare’s familiar hand rested on his shoulder. He then placed a small sack of oats in his hand, warm and dry. “This should give you enough strength for the morning, eat while you walk,”

 

Everyone fell into an unfamiliar routine, rubbing themselves in oil and stuffing dry oats in their mouths. The arena’s ground was illuminated by the torchlight at each entrance, the sky transitioning between a hazy purple and a dark gloomy blue. Like any desert area, it was cold during night and early morning, the breeze mirroring the winds of winter itself.

 

Already, men were grabbing swords and whips, spears and axes, slings and spiked flails. They carried barrels of oil while they ran around the yard to show their strength and durability while others grabbed curved bows and arrows to show preciseness. Even then, he could feel the eyes of every man watching him, waiting. He took comfort in the fact that the masters weren't there to watch him.

 

Dany walked to the barrel of swords. There were long swords and bastard swords, along with arakhs and thin Braavosi swords. Short swords and falchions. All made from different steels and designs, a signature from each city and land it hailed from. He looked through the blades, in the end settling for the convenient bastard sword. It had a handle large enough to hold with both hands, but light enough to carry with one, with a length similar to a longsword if not longer. He remembers Ser Willem telling him as much when Dany first picked up a sword, in those days that seem like a lifetime ago. He had been an eager student, more so than Viserys, and continued to practice his swordsmanship with stray wooden sticks and a dagger to big for his hands, long after they fled Braavos. Perhaps that had been his undoing.

 

It was heavy, but he tested the weight and adapted to its girth. He made his way to the wooden pells before closing his eyes and going into a stance. The blade of his sword fell down hard on the pell, chips of wood and hay flying off with each strike. He parried against his imaginable foe, spun on his heels, advanced to slice at the chest, the neck, and thrusted in longitude. He tried to remember everything the old bear of a knight taught him, and in the end, fell short of everything. How would any of this get him out of the situation he’s found himself in? 

 

Dany dropped the sword, the metal clanking on the ground as he bent and pressed his hands on his knees, a cool breeze gracing his bald head. Blue morning light fell on the yard, and he could see more clearly.

 

“Giving up this early, hm?” he’s startled by the sound of a loud voice and approaching footsteps. They both seem to boom across the yard. Dany turns around to face the man and nearly pales at the grotesque sight that he sees. He has a scarring worse than Zegh’s. Three big scarred gashes across his chest, his shoulder slightly disfigured, it's only saving grace the muscle built in his body. His face was marred with a scar slanted down his face, from the right eye to the left ear. The man's skin was a nut-brown, lighter than Black Bull’s, but darker than Dany’s by far. He gave the boy a crooked smile, some teeth missing from his gums. Being the only man in the yard with armor and a sharp sword, besides the emotionless Unsullied, he can only assume this man is free.

 

Looking around him he sees everyone has taken to groups of five, each one with a teacher, but Dany was the only focus of this man's attention, and that unnerved him beyond repair.

 

Before Dany has a chance to give a rebuttal, the scarred man fetches a sword of his own, an arakh, half sword and half scythe. The wall of muscle falls into a stance, and Dany hurriedly falls into one too, his heart fluttering when the man finally advances toward him. He didn't even have a chance to parry before the back of the man's blade hit his wrist, making him loosen the blade from the surge of pain that raced up his arm. He fell from the shock of it, landing hard on his pained back. The only thing that stopped him from screaming was the gust of air that flowed through his lungs as he was one-handedly hoisted into the air. They both met eye to eye, wide dark violet staring into almond shaped brown.

 

The man grimaced as the younger tried to wriggle out of his grip, “You are weak, boy. I know boys half your age who would have seen that coming from a mile away. You are not fit to hold a sword. To hold a blade as big as that, you need strength,” and with that, he dropped Dany, as if he was little more than a bag of bones. “Get up weak boy. I want you to grab one of those small barrels, and run around the yard. And don't stop until I tell you to after I’m done with you, you will be weak boy no more,”

 

* * *

 

 

The hard part isn't picking up the barrel, in fact in Dany’s opinion that had been the swiftest part.  The hard part in question was carrying the gallons of oil while attempting to run about the yard. The hot sun had bored down on his skull, though the heat from the sun wasn't as bad as the heat from his body.  So much blood had rushed to his face, a personal warmth hanging above his skin as it lathered itself in perspiration.

 

The man, Caggo he believes his name is, made him run until sun up and sun down, until his thin tunic was drenched in sweat and his body was drained of will.

 

“You will do this again, tomorrow,” Dany could still see the smug smirk on his face, eyes gleaming in satisfaction.  What was the man getting out of this? Daeron dreaded the morrow, as he laid still as a statue on his bunk. If he closed his eyes and focused hard enough he could hear the loud thud of his heart, each breath he draws, the snores down the hall and the one above him, and not much else.

 

Danny yearned for sleep, but his mind refused to stay inactive, to let go of the rusty shards of reality and succumb to the blissful lulls of sleep.  The surreality of the situation has yet to wear off, and he still has to remind himself how he ended up here when he starts to miss Viserys. Viserys. What was he doing right now Dany wondered. Does he think of Dany as much as Dany thinks of him or is he to indulged in the splendor of Essos to care?  _Was it worth it Viserys?_ , he swallowed the lump in his throat,  _was your own brother worth it?_

 

For once the cold cell felt like a relief as sorrow became rage and his skin turned hot.  He shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the neverending bleakness. Maybe if he just laid there with his eyes closed, he’d slip into a fitful sleep without even realizing it.

 

He needs sleep, he needs to run on something heavier than a sack of oats lest he faints tomorrow, he needs his back to heal and his sore body to soothe.  He needs to scream at the top of his lungs.

 

Instead, he begins to remember all the Targaryen dragons, recounting their riders and the color of their scales. There was Balerion the Black dread, as black as night, ridden by Aegon the Conqueror and his son Maegor the Cruel after him.  Dany thinks Meraxes had golden eyes and silver scales, and the dragon was big enough to swallow a horse whole. The dragon did not live as long as her siblings and neither did its rider Queen Rhaenys. Vhagar, Sunfyre, and Silverwing. Caraxes and Dreamfyre, Syrax and Tyraxes, Shrykos and Morghul… he could see them now, flying in the heavens as their wings cast large shadows. Their cries were powerful, enough to make both the sky and earth quake in the wake of it.

 

Dany knew that the dragons were no more, that the last dragon died a century and a half ago, but in this wallowing moment he could make himself believe they were there with him.  And then he slept.

 

* * *

 

The days go by dreadfully slow, filled with nothing but him trying but mostly failing to run with gallons of oil.  Caggo taunts and mocks him of course, comparing him to little village boys who could apparently carry two barrels at a time.  Something Dany realizes isn't true and that the man is merely trying to rile him up.

 

The man carried a large arakh, made from steel the like Dany has never seen before.  It was smokey and dark, but had a grimy look about it, almost as grim and grimy as the man who owned it.  Caggo seldom smiled unless he was goading Dany, and when he did it was a hideous thing. He had nearly soulless eyes, sunken and devoid of emotion unless that emotion was anger. Which was easy to provoke and he was quick to resort to it. Dany made sure not to as often as possible.

 

Today, however,  Dany purposefully provoked said anger.  The oats he ate that morning were light on his stomach, to light, and his body nearly collapsed the moment the sun peaked the sky.  He couldn't run, he wouldn't run, he would die if he did, Dany knew he would. He told his teacher as much, and was rewarded with a hard smack across the face and a shout, the taste of iron on his tongue.  This did not faze Dany in the slightest, no matter how much the side of his face throbbed the thought of running laps while dragging a barrel at his feet pained him more. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the yard flickering between him and their task, light chuckles, and whispers.

 

When screaming and shoving Dany wasn't enough, Caggo succumbed to insults, “You're going to give up that easily little boy?  Are you so quick to accept failure?”

 

“I will if it means I will live another day,” had been his rebuttal, before slumping against the wall, crossing his arms in defiance. The little he had left.

 

“Oh, and what a life to live.  No wonder your brother sold you, you're completely useless. You're prettier than any girl and as gangly as one too, though he would have been better off selling you to a pleasure house in Lys than the fighting pits.” that had gotten Dany’s attention. “What? Did that hurt your feelings? Do you know what will hurt more though? Getting eaten alive by a lion in the pits because you weren't fast enough to run or strong enough to push the weight of the beast off of you,”  the thought seemed amusing to the Dothraki, smiling his ugly smile. “The first thing you do when you set foot in this yard is pick up a damn sword, thinking that your masters will truly honor your first fight with that of another man, when in truth you are a boy and the only honor you will get is a broken spear and starved tiger. Though I must say, the tiger won't have much to feast on,”

 

“Shut up!” the truth was as cold and biting as a blade, but the truth was the truth regardless of how he feels.  Dany refused to hear any of it.

 

“Are you telling me to shut up? Oh, the little dragon has finally lost its temper,” Caggo threw back his head in laughter before his face settled and those sunken eyes stared into Dany’s own. They made him feel empty inside. “Mind who you speak to boy, I’ll run through you like butter if it means I make a lesson out of you. And don't think I won't,”

 

He spoke like a man who had nothing to lose, but Dany had nothing to lose either.  What did he have, truly? A throne he’s never seen and a birthright he’s never known?  He was born a prince to a destroyed dynasty, with nothing but the clothes on his back to claim, and even then that was because someone gave it to him.  What did he have to lose? In the end, if Dany should perish, the only ones who’ll have any losses are the masters who paid for him and a brother who sold him with the hopes of gaining money.

 

“Do it then,” the young boy boldly proclaimed, and death didn't seem so bad compared to the pain that gnawed at his belly and the welts that ached on his back. He truly doesn't know how Black Mare or Zegh does it, but he assumes its because they don't burn off their meal the moment they step into the arena.  His eyes quickly skimmed the yard, bounding to a lingering longsword. He heard Caggo scoff.

 

“Stop it now while you still can little boy,”

 

The blade felt heavy in his hands, yet he garnered the little strength he possessed, falling into a stance as he glared at his large foe.  Dany didn't stand a chance against such a man, nearly six feet tall and built with hard muscle. Battle-hardened and seasoned to near perfection compared to Daeron.  Though, he remembers the way it felt to delve his golden dagger into the heart of the magister who tried to have his way with him, the clean blade gliding into the flesh until it reached the hilt.  Dany remembers the shock on the man's face, his mouth agape as he gasped in pain and the pained and frightened look in his eyes. He remembers the man shat himself. The thought made him let out a wry laugh, before resolve took over.

 

“No,” was his only response, and for the first time in weeks, years even, Dany felt free.

 

Caggo had regarded him with his onyx pitless eyes, before drawing his dark blade silently. No heinous smile or nasty goading, no grimace or scowl.  The man truly meant to kill him. Dany vaguely wondered what the masters would think of this.

 

Daeron struck first, and Caggo’s blade countered, chips of the bastard sword flying off at the contact of the hard steel. The blades were crossed, the clash of them still resounding in his ears.  He tried to hold off against the Dothraki strength, and it seemed to work when the man’s resolve weakened until Dany realized a little too late that it was a ploy to make him lean in, and a foot swept his legs making him fall off balance.

 

That’s how he found himself at sword point, under Caggo’s cold regarding stare. “Bold little boy,” he mused, speaking for the first time in minutes. “Weak, but bold.  To bold,” the Dothraki flipped the hilt and crossguard of the sword toward himself, the pommel coming face to face with Dany. Then there was brief pain, one that wracked his skull before darkness closed in.

* * *

 

 

The first thing Dany notices is the smell, a sweet lavender essence dancing with the scent of meat- _meat!_ -and other foods.  It is different from the other cells by far, which houses half a hundred men, all who aren't afforded regular bathing.  Even then, the bed in which he lays is softer than the usual haybed he slept on, if only small and his covers are warm. He still wears his ragged clothes and his hands are bound tightly with cuffs, and the smell of sweat and blood counters that of sultry oils.  The dull thud in his head had yet to abate, a pulsating throb resonating in his ears.

 

Then he feels soft hands lightly caressing his back, unraveling his old bandages. Dany imagined they were brown from dirt, sweat, and dried blood. Each piece peeled off his skin with a reluctant stickiness that made his stomach churn in disgust.

 

He groaned into the pillow his face was smothered in, and the movement halted.

 

“Ah, the boys awake,” the sound of Caggo ’s voice sent a shiver down his spine.

The last thing he remembers seeing is the but of the man's sword knocking him unconscious, the boiling rays of sunlight baking him under the insufferable heat. “I should have had you whipped again for your insolence.”

 

Reluctantly, he raised his head turning to the voice in question. The man sat grumpily in a little wooden chair that seemed to cringe beneath his weight, arms crossed as he peered down at the young boy.

 

It seemed they were still in the pit, though located in a different part of it. The room looked like a renovated corridor turned into quarters, with rows of beds and whitewashed walls. There was a row of windows as well, each sectioned between a bed.

 

“This is where they house the domesticated slaves. You'll find more comfort here for the time being, but don't expect it to last little boy. The moment your bandages are changed and your welts healed your back with the rest of them in the cells,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “How did they except such a weak boy to become their finest warrior?”

 

“Perhaps they didn't,” Dany spoke in what felt like a lifetime.  His throat was drier than the blood road. “Perhaps they wanted me to die,”

 

Caggo snorted, “More like they wanted to piss on the ashes of Valyria. I care not for their reasons. If they think they can insult me by giving me the weakest link in the chain, I'll prove them otherwise,” he narrowed his eyes at Dany, “And you won't have to worry about lions tearing at your flesh if you don't do your part little boy,”

 

“My name's not little boy,” Dany couldn't help but bite back. The weakest link in the chain, he called him.

 

Caggo shot him a disenchanted look, “I care little for what you wished to be called.  You are what I say you are: a weak little slave boy,”

 

The slave girl returned with a tray of different meats, Dany hadn't even known when she left. The smell was nauseating, yet his mouth watered at the sight of them. Caggo rudely grabbed the tray from the girl's hand, making her jolt back. He took a thick sausage, placing it between his just as thick fingers, before he taking a gnarly bite out of the blood sausage.  In all honesty, Dany couldn't tell the difference between either. “And I now know why you are so weak. You don't even have fat to build muscle off of. Your masters were foolish to think you’d become their prized warrior surviving off of oats and gruel. A man is nothing without his meats, and you are just a boy,” it was something akin to kindness in the man's voice, but Daeron had no doubt it was more for the thought of food than actually giving Dany any of it.

 

“Sit up and eat. Now,”

 

Dany followed the command without hesitation.

 

 

* * *

 

For four days he slept in fragile peace, knowing he would soon have to depart from the warm bed and trays of meats and cooked vegetables, but basking in the brief comfort nonetheless.

 

The Fat Master seemed to have no qualms with this, for reasons unknown to Daeron, but the other day outside the corridor while Caggo and the Master were...conversating he heard something along the lines of Valyrians being soft by nature and needing  _specific conditioning_.  As if they were discussing a rare special breed of animal and not a human boy.

 

_Viserys will come back for me,_ he reminded himself.  Danny had to believe it lest he almost get himself killed again. Next time, he thinks, he won't get off as easily as he did the first time.

 

Gradually over the course of days, the ache in his back began to subside, and it didn't hurt as much as it used to when he laid on it.

 

He looked down at his hands, his rolled up sleeves leaving his arms exposed. Danny’s skin hasbegunn to pick a hue darker than the creamy ivory he was born with, his skin liquidating itself in a golden glow from the countless hours spent in the sun.  What truly surprises him is that it hasn't blistered or turned red yet. Perhaps he isn't as delicate as the Fat Master thinks.

 

* * *

 

 

Like Caggo promised, he was back in the cells with the rest of the slaves.  The tension weighed down on his shoulders.

 

They all regarded him coolly now where before it was indifference.  _What did I do this time to affront them?_

 

At least Mare was more or less the same, with his easy grin, and Dany was still unnerved by Zegh who stood by in the distance with watchful eyes.  The boy trusted him not.

 

The daily routine came to him easily, and he had long ago adjusted to waking up early. Mare passed him a jar of oil and he rubbed the olive oil into his skin and head.

 

“It’s good to have you back.  It was starting to get lonely again in that cell,” they trudged out the cold hall into the open yard.  As usual, the yard was illuminated by the torchlights and firepits and it had yet to reach dawn.

 

The domestic slaves approached the funnel of boys and men that poured out the walkway, giving the usual sacks of oats that Dany loathed. He grabbed the sack, opening it to where he could easily pour a mouth full. He swallowed it sorely, the tiny flakes scraping his throat.

 

“You know, the least they can do is offer water.  It’d make swallowing it easier,”

 

Mare only shrugged, “Water is for later in the day, when it grows hot and we need the motivation to follow through with our task,”

 

Everyone broke off into their own groups as their teachers entered the yard.  Dany wasn't so wary of the sight of Caggo, not after staring at the man for four days straight, and most definitely not after what happened prior to that.

 

The man stalked his way, his arakh swaying in the scabbard on his hip, opposite to his sword hand. He carried a sack in his fleshy hand, dripping in grease and immediately Dany knew what it was.  He hated how eager he was for a few pieces of meat, like a stray alley mut. Caggo tossed it into his hand, making Dany drop his bag of oats. Though he didn't mind that, instead he untied the small sack, tearing into the meat inside.  Dried beef and greasy sausages had never tasted this savory.

 

* * *

 

 

Caggo had decided to try a new means of exercise, one that blessedly did not consist of running laps while carrying small barrels. Instead, he carried a thick rod on his shoulders, heavy sacks tied to each end as he ran laps around the yard.  It weighed less than the small barrels but they were heavy all the same.

 

“When you are stronger, you will return back to the barrels. The large ones,” Caggo had happily proclaimed with that ugly toothless smile of his.

 

The mornings became more bearable after, with something heavier than grains and oats on his stomach.  The afternoons were something he anticipated for, and the realization of his unbidden comfort and familiarity to his situation frightened him.  Every afternoon he spared against the Dothraki, getting knocked to the ground more times than he could count and yet he continuously got up again. And again, and again, and with each week that rolled by, he began to last longer. He attained more bruises from their bouts than he did wins, but with a sword in his hand, he felt invincible.  As if there was a way out, as if that particular moment in his life wouldn't last forever.  _Viserys will come back for me, I know it.  I just have to survive._  He’d go past his expectations and prove everyone wrong about him. That was his only way out, Dany had decided.

 

The man corrected every error Dany made, instructing him on how to advance and properly block a defense with or without a shield.  What stance to fall in depending on what angle his opponent was in and the precise footwork to step into. With each correction, an insult was sure to follow, but Dany had grown so used to the man’s foul nature he barely noticed the slights.

 

It was the hope that made him get up every morning, despite the fact that it sometimes wavered like a weak flame, waiting to be extinguished.

 

Dany had grabbed a piece of charcoal from the unlit pits, and soon after tally marks adorned his cell wall, estimating the days that passed prior and keeping track of the ones that followed.

 

Days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to moons, and Dany spent his time sparing and running in the boiling rays of the Essosi heat.  Idly waiting by in the moments when he wasn't called for. At night when he slept, he dreamed of dragons.

 

* * *

 

 

Tonight was particularly cold.  A summer storm raged outside the dungeon they slept in.  Loud booms of thunder clapped in the skies, and Daeron flinched with each one that passed.

 

He remembers on nights like these, back at the manse with the red door, Dany and Viserys used to hide beneath the blankets together.  His brother would hold him closely and soothe his whimpers, whispering words of comfort. Sometimes he’d tell stories about their ancestors, regaling him with the tales of Dunk and Egg and the Princess and the Queen.  

 

Another clap of thunder sounded, this one louder than the last, making him jolt in his cot.

 

“Dany?” Mare called out worriedly, his head peeking down the bunk beneath him.

 

“I’m alright, I’m just…” what could he tell the Summer Islander?  That he was afraid of thunder? The boy would laugh at him.

 

Silence reigned until another sound of thunder boomed across the arena.

 

“Can I ask you a question Dany?”

 

Daeron hesitated before nodding, despite the fact that Mare couldn't see him do it. “Go ahead,”  Anything would be better than stewing in his fear.

 

“Why do you leave tally marks on the wall?”

 

“Isn't it obvious?  To keep track of the days,”

 

“But what’s the point of doing that?”

 

“It gives me something to do!” he responded curtly, the lie slipping from his lips easily.

 

“Alright, alright,” Mare startled, shifting in his cot.

 

Daeron hadn’t meant to shout or shy the boy away from talking.  Lest he slip back into the nights when there was no cover or roof to protect Dany and Viserys from the summer storms.  “I’m sorry, I admit I am a little tired and by extension grumpy,” he reluctantly apologized. “You can ask more if you want,”

 

“Okay!” was Mare’s eager response. “Uh, let’s see. Oh! You are a true descendant from Valyria correct?  One of the families? How did your family escape the Doom?”

 

Daeron mulled the words of his companion over before responding, “They didn't escape the Doom, because they weren't there when it happened. My brother-” he paused, ignoring the clenching in his chest. “Viserys said that our ancestor Daenys saw the fall of Valyria in a dream, which is why they called her The Dreamer.  She warned her family, and her lord father took them and fled to an island near Westeros: Dragonstone, which is the Targaryen family seat,” Viserys had also gone on to say that that whole story was horseshit and that Lord Aenar only sought to escape execution, not extinction.

 

“ _Lord_ father?  But I thought Targaryen’s were royalty, not lords?”

 

“We are,”  _we were_. “My ancestor Aegon the Conqueror made sure of it,”

 

That seemed to garner the Summer Islanders interest. “How so?”

 

Dany would have thought everyone in the known world knew how.  Conquering an entire continent and forging a band of squabbling kingdoms into one single kingdom was no small feat to go unnoticed.  But perhaps Mare had things he’d rather not think of, perhaps hearing Daeron talk was an escape as much as it was for himself.

 

“Well, one day Aegon and his sister wives flew across Westeros on their dragons: Balerion Meraxes and Vhagar, seemingly curious visitors.  But when Aegon returned to Dragonstone he had a table constructed to look like the continent, with all the landmarks and whatnot. Argilac the Storm King had grown wary of Harren the Black, and offered his daughters hand in marriage, Argella I think, to Aegon Targaryen in exchange for protection. But Aegon rejected the offer, instead extending the offer to his friend Orys Baratheon,”  _bastard brother,_ Viserys would say with a sneer,  _bastards always prove their nature in the end,_ would follow after.  Dany hated when he got that way, because a beating would follow soon after. He shook the thought away. “Aegon had sent an envoy to relay the proposal but the hands of his envoy were returned to him along with a message: These are the only hands you will receive, it read. And then the conquest began, with Aegon calling his banners and sending out ravens to all the independent kingdoms.  Dorne, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, the Reach and the North. There would only be one king in Westeros, and they could either bend the knee and keep their lands and titles as lords and wardens or be greeted with fire and blood,”

 

“I assume people fought back,”

 

“They did, and they died because of it.  What’s an army of men compared to just one dragon, let alone three?”

 

“There aren't any dragons anymore,” was Mare’s daunting reply.

 

“I know,” Dany turned on his side.  Over the moons, his body had grown from soft to sore to solid.  The soreness had fallen upon him like a disease, and only massaging oil into his skin could abate the aches.  But there was a hardness to his lean body now, one that hadn't been there before. He hoped it would help in the battles sure to come, though Caggo still thought him weak. “It’s strange what time can do to things,”

 

“Can I ask you a question Mare?”

 

There was a long silence, a pause in their conversing, then a sigh and sudden reply, “Of course my friend,”

 

“How did you learn the Common Tongue? You're from the Summer Isle’s, and most men here speak their mother language,” another pause.

 

“The boy before you taught me,” it was obviously something his companion didn't want to talk about, and despite Dany’s newly piqued curiosity for the boy who once shared this cell with Mare, he let it go. Mare sensed the end of their nightly talk, muttering a gentle “Goodnight my friend,”

 

Sleep came to him easily after.

 

* * *

 

 

They didn't leave their cells until noon, when the sun was out and it was hot enough to dry the hard sand concrete.

 

Today was a day that Dany eagerly anticipated for.  The slaves would be switching teachers, and for the first time since he’s arrived, he’d be training with something other than sword and with someone other than the Dothraki. It had been announced suddenly by the slavers amidst training hours, whom relayed the Fat Masters words. Caggo’s words still echoed in his mind, of having to fight a tiger or lion instead of an actual man. A spear would come more in handy. Daeron also pitied who’d ever fall under the man's tutelage.

 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” the Dothraki had spat. “This is not the last you’ll see of me.”

 

There were many teachers from selected backgrounds. A Norvoshi priest looking to make some extra coin, with axes at hand. Then there was seasoned Unsullied with their spears and fighters from Yi Ti with long curved single-edged blades.

 

Dany would be receiving one on one training from the unsullied warrior.  The man stood tall and rigidly, a permanent scowl on his face with a spiked helm on his head, clad in plain black leather armor.  His face was indiscernible as the rest of the Unsullied guards that surrounded the premises, lacking any depth or individuality. What went through the man's mind?  Was there anything at all, any emotion or was it all blank? Did they even feel anger?

 

“Boy,” the man spoke after a long uncomfortable silence, his firm gaze on Daeron. “Go grab spear,” each word was spoken in length paces, as if the man had to think every word through.

 

Dany determinedly stalked toward the barrel of spears.

 

* * *

 

 

They trained until the sun descended from its zenith, when the evening finally settled in and the slaves ate bowls of gruel before falling back into their groups once more.

 

He and the unsullied soldier had gone over many routines comprised of a wooden staff set and steel spear.  Obviously, being more experienced than Dany, the man won every bout they had after going over techniques, but the young boy endured longer than he probably would have moons before.

 

“You have much to work on,” the unsullied circled him, how a predator circles a prey before going in for the kill.  “Arms are not strong enough to carry spear, let alone steel spear,”

 

Dany nearly groaned from the dread he felt.  He knew what would come after this.

 

“You will do exercise, like training Unsullied.” Dany bit the side of his cheek. “And you will start now. You will not go back to cell until you master first exercises,”

 

With a sigh, he nodded.  This was all to help him, so that’d he’d survive the pits long enough for his brother to return and take him away from the horrid place.  How long would it be before he stepped outside the arena?

 

In lieu of carrying or running, the exercises consisted of continuously lifting the weight of his body off the ground using the strength of his arms and legs or cupping the back of his head while consistently lifting his torso off the ground, legs laid straight out. The ground was relatively warm, but not hot, and Dany internally thanked every god there was for it.

 

“When you are stronger, your knees will be bent,”  Dany mourned the day when that would come. If it would come.

 

He stood on sore unsteady legs, leaning his weight against the cool wall.  Dany had already drunk his fill of water, and thus would not be permitted another.  Mare had warned him to wait a little later during their break, but the Valyrian boy had been more than impatient.   _Patience would become you, my friend,_ he had laughed.

 

“What is your name?”

 

The unsullied frowned from where he stood, lips slightly curling “Boy does not ask unnecessary questions,”

 

“But you are my teacher, shouldn't I address you by a name or title?”

 

“Did you address Dothraki by title?” Dany bit his lip, his silence the only answer the unsullied needed. “Then no.”

 

“How long will you be my teacher?”

 

“For as long as your master allows,” he stated flatly, eager to end the small conversation Dany was conjuring.  It was a foolish feat, and the agonizing silence almost made him yearn for Caggo’s constant goading. “We are finish for today.  Go back to cell,”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why are the Unsullied so…” Dany tried to find the right word, settling with “stiff.”

 

Mare shrugs “Because they are trained that way,” his eyes are unsettled by the thought of it.

 

They sat by bars of their cell door, which offered the light from the nearby torches on the wall.

 

“How are they trained?”

 

“Brutally,” Mare’s reply was tense. “Worse by far compared to how we are trained. You shouldn't judge them, who knows the horrors they’ve seen or done,”

 

Mare seemed to know, from the way he closed his eyes pained and slightly shuttered as he spoke. “When I was first brought to the slave markets of Astapor, my slaver had lingered there for five days, selling and purchasing other slaves.  I remember one day, while I was being bided, a young boy had approached the slaver, who had with him a girl and her mother. The boy had brought the girl for a high price and then slit the little girl's throat right in front of her mother. I can still hear the woman’s screams, and every other woman in the market who was unfortunate enough to be there that day. He was unsullied, trying to earn a helm or something of the like,”

 

The Summer Islanders words left him speechless, that familiar churning of disgust and fear settling in the pit of his stomach.  

 

“How long have you been a slave Mare?” he asked suddenly, leaning in close to his companion with exact attention.  Dany didn't know much about the boy at all. It was always him talking of himself as Mare asked questions, never the other way around but Daeron was determined.

 

The boy started at the question.  Dany had never seen him frown before, had never seen him look so lorn.  Mare was the happiest person in the vicinity of this place. Perhaps it was only a mask to conceal the sadness beneath.   _It takes character to smile even when you're sad._ Dany couldn't say the same for himself.

 

_“Years,”_

 

* * *

 

Moons eventually bring the new year, and there is no more space on the wall across from their bunks to draw tally marks, so he makes room on the wall adjacent.

 

Years. Mare had been a slave for years, six years to be exact but years nonetheless. Dany has only been a slave-and he knows now more than ever that he is a slave- for eight moons, and it has felt like a lifetime. _This is only the beginning. I haven't even fought in the fighting pits yet. I’m not even finished with training._ Who knows how long others have been slaves, and Mare claimed that Unsullied were trained from a ripe age, and they didn't have that lingering hope Dany has.  That, someone, was still out there, far away yet close at the same time, who’d someday return for him. Viserys  _would_  return for him.  He knew his brother. Viserys had sworn that he’d take Daeron to Westeros, along with every other oath and promise he swore to the Seven Gods.  He couldn't do that if Dany was stuck in some arena for the rest of his days. The flame of his hope still flickered.

 

The wind rushes through the hills and mountains, kicking up orange sand and dust. The rattling of chains and moving feet resonates on the lone path as those without trousers try to avoid brushing their skin against any bushes. Lest it is poisonous.

 

For the first time, Dany’s been afforded freedom. The irony was daunting but the statement was true in a way. After moons of being locked away in a cell at night and confined to one single space during the day, running along a path felt like a victory.

 

The sky is beautiful, something he rarely notices anymore.  An ombre of golden-hued orange clouds, with tips of pure white and an enigma of indigo and blue.  Like the heavens themselves are opening up to reveal a crisp blue horizon. The wilderness is alive with the twittering of birds and rustling leaves.

 

They run in a single file line, with ironclad collars around their neck.  It connected with a long rusted chain, that locked him with the person in front of and behind him.  Of course, stopping isn't an option and despite the fact that his thighs burn and the soles of his feet feel like they might crack open, he felt like he could finally breathe.

 

Dany has grown used to the smell of musk, sweat, and blood.  The air that filled his lungs now almost tasted sweet in comparison.

 

_Someday,_ he thought defiantly,  _I will know true freedom again._

 

* * *

 

 

It is five moons into the year 294 AC.  Five moons and six days when he is permitted to go into the fighting pits. Nearing his twelfth name day.

 

They lined them up in the yard, heads down as the hot sun baked the back of it, hands placed behind their backs with heavy chains.  Pit owners were there as well, to make bids on which slave they’d get pick to spill blood in their arena. They smiled and laughed and cheered as they dined on food and drink, sitting in their extravagant litters held by even more slaves. A celebration of sorts for the good fortune they were soon to receive.

 

It felt like a trail, slave after slave being pulled out of line to showcase their skill.  Those who did not reach expectations, let alone had a buyer, were cast aside and led back to their cells. A trail and an execution.

 

They were all vying for him, he could tell from the eager looks cast his way, from the way they’d all hoarded around the Fat Master with pockets full of coin.  And the Fat Master had looked more than pleased. Dany knew that he would go to the pits regardless if he was well trained or not. The fate seemed almost inevitable as if the gods themselves sought after his doom.  Yet another tragedy to befall the last of the dragons.

 

His feet felt heavy beneath him with each gnarly step.  Perhaps it was the weight of the chains or the weight of his problems.

 

All eyes were on him as he stepped from the line, trailing after the scion with his head down. Violet eyes mindful of those watching.  

 

On the ground laid weapons of varying sorts, but his eyes only spotted the familiar two. A bastard sword and a wooden spear. A goaler freed him of his chains as Caggo and the unsullied warrior fell to his side from the short line of teachers. The Dothraki leveled him with a knowing stare, harsh and unapologetic. The unsullied stared straight ahead, gazing at nothing in particular with his hands placed sternly behind his rigid back.

 

Dany picked the sword first before waiting for instruction.

 

The Dothraki ordered him to do numerous stances. The middle stance, the high stance and the low stance, each done in an uncertain regality with uneased poise. Dany tried his hardest not to stare down at his feet to monitor his footwork, lest they find him wanting.  And why did he care for what they thought of him? The answer was as stark as day, but the young boy refused to acknowledge it.

 

He twirled on his heel more times than he could count, and with each stance that passed, Caggo began to call them out rapidly, forcing Dany to move faster.  It was like a dance, and his limbs were breaking wind as hard as the blade of the sword he carried. An erratic dance, a performance to entertain his masters.

 

Daeron could practically feel Master Ozel’s hateful glare boring into him.

 

“Hold,” the boy halted in the close left stance, sweaty palms clenching the hilt. A lifetime seemed to pass as silence reigned. He could feel the blood rushing to his ears, the beads of sweat rolling down his brow, and every labored breathe he released. “Release.” he dropped the sword, the metal clamoring to the ground as he placed his hands to his side and stared downward.

 

The unsullied began to circle around him in that unusual way he was prone to doing. “Grab the spear,”

 

With weary feet he moved to the line of weapons, grabbing the long metal spear the Unsullied favored.  It was hot and covered in red rust, weathered from use and age.

 

“Long stance,” the warrior's voice was stern yet gentle, carrying on the wind. “Remember what I told you.  Each movement is sharp and firm,”

 

Dany kept the surprise from showing on his face as the spear thrust in longitude, one foot positioned before him and thigh bent down in a firm arch. He hadn't known the teachers were still allowed to give critic and advice.  The cycle went on, with the unsullied calling out stances with drops of knowledge lingering behind. It was a stark contrast to Caggo. The man had little patience for anything, not even time itself.

 

“Hold. Release,” the spear clamored at his feet, the same as the bastard sword. The teachers fell to his side again, Caggo with his hefty steps and the unsullied with his calculated movement. His teachers were as different as the sun and the moon.

 

Silence dawned on the arena again before suddenly being filled with rapturous laughter and the clapping of hands.  _“Good!,”_ the Fat Master shouted from his litter, startling the slave girls nearby.  _“Very good. I am pleased. And I assure you my good friends, the crowds of people that will soon flood your pits will be pleased as well, and all shall prosper.”_

 

The highest bidder would get to bleed the slave first, then the second, then the third and fourth, down to the very last.

 

How many had bided for him?  Had thrown gold at his master's feet? Danny hated how vulnerable he was, so much that he couldn't even understand their snake-like language to comprehend the amount of pain that was in store.

 

* * *

 

Mare found him in the cell that night, frantically pacing back and forth. His face was red with panic and he looked as if he might faint. The reality of the situation finally settled in, and it terrified him. Dread for the inevitable is all he felt. An energy absorbing, time-consuming dread that sunk to the marrow of his bones and petrified his soul.

 

Daeron was going to fight in the pits, the gods only know how many. For countless masters, with numerous rounds, going toe to toe with men far better trained than him.  Men whose faced far worse and came out in triumph. They were born to kill, but Danny? He was born a prince; albeit to a disgraced royal family but royalty nonetheless.  He was born as the spare and had his family not been usurped he’d never have had to worry about dying with a clean sword. Rhaegar would have been the warrior, Viserys perhaps a knight or the Hand and Danny the spare married off to some pretty lady with a family eager to marry a prince of the blood.

 

_Viserys Viserys Viserys._  How could he do this to him, knowing how small and weak and scared he always is? Even the summer storms cowed him.

 

His heart raced faster at the thought and he felt as if he might pass out. “Danny!”  Mare shook him out of his manic daze. “It’s going to be alright! You did fine and-”

 

“Nothing is going to be alright!” he angrily tried to loosen the Summer Islander’s grip, but to no avail. “I am going to die, Mare! I will not last a  _day_ in the pits and you know it! The masters...they are sending me to my death.  It’s all a big joke to them! We are all jokes to them!”

 

How could they do this to people! Too real, very much alive people. They breathed the same air and lived under the same sky, with blood as red as wine flowing to their hearts. They felt the same emotions, from anger to happiness, to joy and sorrow, fear and courage.  They all cried and laughed and smiled and loved the same. And yet it mattered not to the masters. Did those men in their silken robes and golden rings even see them as human? Were they even aware of the dozens of backs their grandeur litters sat upon or the young girls who served them faithfully or the young boys they sent to early graves for their greed and amusement? Or did they see them as objects, little more than a dumb mule to be moved about and ordered until death claimed it?  How could anyone think like that or see someone in that way and sleep peacefully at night?

 

Mare regarded him with weary eyes before letting him go.  In a single second that gods be damned smiled returned. “It is just something we have to learn to live with my friend, but you will do alright.”

 

Danny had to stop himself from shouting at his companion-his friend.

 

* * *

 

 

According to Mare, Dazno no Forak is a frequent visitor of the Fat Masters, renting out slave boys both old and new.

 

Just like the rest of them, he wears the tokar of a master, clad in silver bands and rings to match the pale mint green of the fabric he wears. He smelled more of flowers and perfume than he did oils, and despite the greyness of his aged hair, his face was tight and youthful, androgynous in a way. Unusual for a master from what Daeron’s saw so far.

 

Master Dazno inspected them curiously again from where he stood, having his overseers prod and pry. It was the second time the young boy stood out the arena, lined up with his cellmates with iron collars around their necks. The Fat Master sat nearby in a pavilion, consistently fanning himself whilst Master Ozel stood with his arms crossed, staring at everything as if it were all a great affront to him.  They were surrounded by masters, pit masters, slavers, goalers and overseer's

 

For the life of Dany, he couldn't even begin to explain how grateful he felt to have been picked alongside Mare, a familiar face, a friend. Even seeing Zegh was a relief. It was the first time he truly got a look at the rest of the boys and the men whom he shared the cells with.  Some were tall, others short, lean others lusty, young where most were older. He had thought Mare had been older, but that notion was swiftly dissuaded when he looked upon some men- whom despite having a rather well physique for their age, had crows feet at the corner of their eyes, wrinkles on their brow, and white whiskers sprouting from their faces.

 

They were surrounded by masters, pit masters, slavers, goalers, and overseers. One by one they called out their names as the slavers checked for height and ethnicity. The Master Dazno no Forak regarded them with a sleek smile.

 

The master's graceful feet stopped before Dany, the man taller than him by half. His smile stretched farther, teeth as golden as the sun. An overseer stood beside him. “Name,”

 

He knew the name his masters gave him. _Dyni_ , Valyrian for beast.  But it wasn't ingrained into him, and so it was no wonder the name “Daeron,” slipped past his lips. He doesn't think a thousand lashes could strip him of his name, the name his mother gave him.

 

“My name is Daeron,” he says again, this time bolder.

 

It was also no wonder when Ozel snapped his head toward Dany, eyes furrowed like a viper. “What did you just say?” he stepped from beneath the tent, stalking toward the young boy with malice intent until they were face to face. The man's hand gripped his cheeks, murder in his eyes. “You do not go by that name anymore! Your name is-”

 

“Ozel that is enough!” the Fat Master lazily called, waving a dismissive hand. “Leave the boy be,”

 

The young master whipped around, roughly letting go of Dany’s red face, “Let the boy be? He is being an insolent-”

 

“It’s quite alright,” Master Dazno’s voice sounded over the others. He stepped closer, moving past the scandalized Ozel. “A dragon is a dragon even when it’s in chains. It will give the people of Meereen something to look forward to,” the man's smile was sweet and cruel.

 

* * *

 

 

Daeron now knows why they ran along the trail all those weeks ago, and plenty of weeks after.  It was to prepare for the long and tiresome walk from the arena to the docks. Miles and miles, days upon days of relentless moving through the wilderness. He couldn't run away even if he wanted to, despite the numerous opportunities that presented themselves. 

 

Unlike before they lacked the coffles to provide more mobility. If he wanted, he could attempt at sneaking off into the night, past the sleeping Unsullied and slavers without the burden of being shackled to someone else. But he didn't know a thing about hunting for food or fighting off wild animals, he hadn't even seen a proper fight. Oh yes, he remembers killing the magister with a sharp clarity, but that was different. At least Dany thinks that’s different. What’s an old perverted magister to a hungry pack of wild cats? Or the poisonous vipers and scorpions that lurked the ground at night?  He could barely see now with the little light provided from the master’s pavilion and the slavers campfire, let alone by himself into the unfamiliar jungle that surrounded the road.

 

The soil was moist and cold from the nightly rains. Another summer storm had passed through not so long ago, and Dany wouldn't be surprised if another passed through again.  He just hoped they managed to make it out in time before it did.

 

Mare and Dany rested their backs together as men moved to and fro around them, setting up camp in hopes of gaining extra rations.

 

“Will we be there soon?” he asked, weary from the days long journey. The soles of his feet were sore and cracked, his sandals a ruin.

 

“Yes, just a few more miles to walk, and then it’s to the docks. The master might make a few more stops to gather more slaves for the pits,”

 

Daeron nodded. They had already made stops to nearby markets and pits, and the fruits of the master's laborious search now sat among them. The slaves from the Old Arena seemed to mingle with the slaves picked up along the way, even Mare sometimes drifted off to great old friends, leaving him alone to the uncomfortable shadow that was Zegh. They all regarded Dany with indifference and the cold distance he was used to, and so he stayed clear of them.

 

“This master must be very wealthy,”

 

“Not really, at least by the master’s standards. Master Dazno is relatively new I believe, but he is becoming very well known. He is from a powerful family after all, not old, but powerful.”

 

The next day, they boarded the _Great Harpy._  Daeron found that perhaps walking was more pleasant.

 

The unsteady sway of the ship left him wide awake and a victim to his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 

The smell was beyond unbearable. A mix of salt and must that clashed together, one scent relentlessly trying to prevail over the other. It was humid and hot, and it seemed his predictions for another storm was wrong. There was barely enough room to move around, and worst of all he was next to those who were more than a little hostile, mumbling in their foreign tongues as they glared at him.  Over the moons, his bald head had grown a silvery gold fuzz and his violet eyes stood out starkly in the dark, making it easier to identify the Valyrian.

 

He and Mare had been purposely separated while boarding the ship, for reasons unknown to both of them besides the fact that the slavers wished to cause them displeasure.  So only Zegh was the familiar face amidst him, below the deck with fully grown men closely chained together like jarred goods. No room to move their legs, for their legs were cradled against their chest to make more room for those in front of them. Huddled closer than cargoes of cattle. The unlucky ones were chained to planks, laid flat out like rows of dead men. And gods but did it smell, Dany couldn't stress this enough.  It smelled of waste, for rarely did the slavers come down to provide buckets to release in. The ones that they have overflowed with shit and piss, spilling onto the floor with each drift of the vassal. Vomit permeated the stuffy rows as well, so strong to the point of suffocation.

 

Dany would rather suffer days walking in the hot sun, with fresh clean air and the promise of a rare breeze from the nearby ocean.

 

They ate food from their filthy hands, all scampering through their chains and climbing over each other to reach the overseer who so kindly plopped scalding scoops of gruel into eager hands. If one didn't make it in enough time, then one would have to wait until the next. The same with the bread and water and those were truly bloody to get ahold of. Only the fittest claimed those rare awards.

 

It was those moments that truly endeared him to Zegh. At first, he had questioned the man's intentions, but thirst and hunger abated any suspicions after the first few days. Had Mare told him to look after his Valyrian friend?

 

Sometimes it got to the point Dany didn't even want to eat, from the loathsomeness of the stench, but he needed the strength and those who had food but refused to eat were flogged besides.

 

Even the overseers and slavers couldn't fathom the foul air, going as far as to let them out on deck, though only one group a day.  It amused the slavers to see the slaves wrestle each other to the ground to be apart of the ascending group.

 

The Great Harpy was the true embodiment of hell.

 

* * *

 

_“What’s a girl doing here?”_ a burly man calls out. His tongue is that of low Valyrian, his eyes filled with hate and spite, and Dany knows the question is in regards to him.

 

The sky is a gloomy pelt of grey and blue, and the winds are plentiful. Daeron blessedly managed to fight his way to the overseer to be apart of the lucky group of boys and men brought to the deck. If he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough he can pretend that he’s on his way to Braavos with Viserys. He remembers watching the white sails beat in the wind, remembers wanting to be a sailor.  He tries not to think about what happened after when he told Viserys as much.

 

The other slaves laugh at the stalky man's jibe, but the man in question is all gnarled lips and hard eyes.

 

_“It’s the Valyrian boy Hegg! The one from the Old Arena,”_ this voice is more youthful, similar to Mare’s, but when he turns around it is not his friend he sees. Only a stranger, another slave.  _“They are going to put him in the pits to fight, can you believe it?”_

 

The mere thought was humorous to them, the greatest jest of them all. Dany couldn't help but dreadfully agree.

 

“You are all aware that I am standing here? That I can hear you?”

 

The group went silent for a moment, faces slightly puzzled, before bursting into more fits of laughter. Distantly, he hears one of the slavers telling them to shut up.

 

_“Did you understand him? What funny tongue is that again?”_

 

_“I think it’s from the Sunset Kingdoms,”_

 

_“Is he from Westeros?  Are the Andals selling off their young and weak now? He won't last a day in the Great Games.”_

 

_The Great Games. “The Great Games?”_ he suddenly felt numb.  He hadn't known it was the time for the Great Games.  No one had said anything about the Great Games. Was it such a regular occurrence in everyone’s life that his masters had not seen fit to mention it?

 

Daeron remembers hearing of them as a boy when he and Viserys walked the streets of Braavos.  Every few moons it was all the Braavosi could talk about, the unjust and barbaric practices of the Ghiscari, from the sailors to the beggars.

 

_“Look at him! Look how he trembles!”_

 

Dany looked down at his hands and saw that they were in fact trembling. He closed them into a tight fist, stilling the unbidden movement.

 

“ _No, foolish boy. The Great Games are far from now. I hardly doubt you’ll last until then though. You’ll be dead before the turn of the moon. Perhaps the gods of Ghis have finally seen fit to smite the Valyrians.  No dragons, no power, no freedom to reign terror. Just a boy who is a slave. A boy who will be dead soon.”_ it was the same man who instigated the conversation. He looked as if he wanted to carve the young boy up with his murderous glare.

 

_“They answered to neither god nor man, and now they are neither nor.”_

 

How was Dany supposed to respond to that?  What did he say to that? To speak of something he had little knowledge of? Whatever the reason was, the man seemed to harbor an unwarranted grudge toward the young boy.

 

_“Ah, leave the boy be Hegg.  Holding him accountable for the crimes of his forefathers will do us no good.”_

 

All eyes turned to a young man, with tendrils of sandy brown hair and a promising smile. He leaned near the railing with folded arms, the breeze whipping through his hair.

 

Before anyone could so much as say anything to him the overseers came to the small group of men, whips in hand for anyone who didn't move below the deck fast enough.

 

* * *

 

Daeron simmered in the thick of waste and vomit for an entire moon before they made it to Meereen. They’d seen the great pyramids peaking above the city walls as they crossed the spoiled Skahazadhan, all made from different bricks. Bronze harpies aligned the river wall, the sun making them gleam like pennies.

 

The hot take of air was almost a relief, but the foul odor followed after them, so much that every passerby covered their noses in disgust for both slave and Freeman.  The docks were filled with incoming slaves from far off pits, with masters eager to reach the gate first. The slavers and overseers led them like herds of sheep, as they rode upon their camels and steeds and great litters. There seemed to be both a hub of excitement and trepidation among the chain gang he was with, but all Dany could feel was dread and unbidden resignation.

 

When they finally entered they were greeted by onlookers, eager to see the new stocks. People hoisted their children above their heads to get a better glimpse, laughing and cheering for the festivities to come. They looked dirty, some no better than the slaves, but as they entered deeper into the city near the pyramids old browned rags turned into Myrish silks of varying color. Oiled skin and extravagant tokars, golden nose rings, earrings, and armbands. And behind them were their slaves, four for each master.  

 

* * *

 

 

The streets of Meereen were filled with temples, granaries, hovels, palaces, brothels, and bathhouses.

 

The bathhouse they resided in was in great disrepair, with caved-in ceilings and cracked walls.  Weeds and vines sprouting in every corner. Everything was damp and musty, and they were all crowded into one narrow space. Despite that, it was a blessing Dany was grateful for.

 

Water still ran hot in the large tubs and poured generously from the carved out holes in the wall.  Guards stood to watch in the entrance, ready to end any dispute.

 

Daeron washed the grime from his body, basking in the scalding hot water where other men stayed clear of it.  His skin felt hard and rough, bones lean and tense. They were afforded a small bar of soap, made from charcoal and dry oil, the dark solution blending in with the dirt that flowed down the drain.

 

It gave him time to think, the little time it was.  About the house with the red door, about Ser Willem Darry and the maids, the years he and Viserys spent in fear and poverty and thought _would the gods be so cruel as to let it end like this?_  If there were any gods.

 

* * *

 

 

They rested below the small pyramid of the Forak’s in a large den. The pyramid structure was made of pale mint green and white brick, and just down the road was the Bronze Pit with its bronze gate and harpy. Some masters brought their purchases to the pits early, as to get a head start, but Master Dazno thought it wiser to be patient. To wait until the people heavily emerged in the games and willing to bid and spend more freely. Though he had separated the slaves into two separate groups, sending one off earlier than the other just to be sure.  _Where are Mare and Zegh?_ the boy wondered. Just like his friend, he’d lost the strange man as well.  Wherever Mare was, he hoped his islander friend survived.

 

The night was quiet and solemn in the den, but he found he couldn't sleep.  _Think of dragons_ , he reminded himself.  _For I am of their blood._

 

Above the pyramids of the great city, the wind howled like the wolf, and the clouds edged closer. The graces prayed in their temples, blessing the games to come and the games that passed as slave men, women and children graved the names of the fallen into the Gates of Fate.

 

* * *

 

Once again they were paraded through the streets, a grand spectacle for the people of Meereen to look onto. Pit fighters were herded in every direction, for in every direction there was a pit to be filled. The masters seemed to hover above them like clouds in their litters, palanquins, and sedan chairs. The graces threw petals of flowers onto them when they passed, wooden bead necklaces and sharded silks, screaming their excitement and small blessings.

 

Today was the day, perhaps the first and the last for Daeron. His hands trembled in trepidation. How would the day end? Would he see the end of it?

 

Everything seemed to clash together unfavorably.  The bright and vibrant tokars melding with the dirtied rags of lesser men, the scent of sex and perfume that wafted from the brothels they passed, and as they edged closer and closer to the Bronze pit he could taste the blood and rot in the air. It resembled that of a butcher house and all he learned, all his training seemed to fly out the window at the sight of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Puddles of blood soaked the sand, and screams filled the air.  The den gave an open windowed view of what progressed in the yard. Nothing but hungry beast plagued its grounds, and all around him were boys his age or younger.

 

The wild creatures had looked skeletal at the beginning, but as the day progressed their stomachs began to grow heavier until they were completely sated. When that happened they were placed back into their dens to starve once more, while more beasts were brought out. They whipped them and stuck them with pikes, making them grow more feral and bloodthirsty.

 

A small boy, shy of seven stood woodenly with a blunted sword in his hand, eyes big and round with fear and tears. It was so heavy he dragged it at his feet when he began to run.  The other children had already fallen, bodies mangled and torn and the beast sought for more. There was no use, the wildcat prowled the grounds with ease, eyes filled with hunger and bloodlust. A chain was wrapped around its gangly neck, so it could only go so far around the perimeter, a procedure to keep the guards and onlookers seated low in the arena safe.  But the boy wore a chain as well, attached to the same hinge as the beast. It was no use, he had no chance, no training. It was over as soon as it began and the crowd cheered for more.

 

The boy's shrill screams permeated throughout the yard, but the freeman overpowered it.  _More!_ they chanted, as the gnarly teeth ripped at his flesh, tearing into the child's thin body.  His live blood spilling out onto the ground.

 

The den shifted between dreadful silence and mournful whimpers. The devoted and faithful whispered prayers up to their gods, others called for their mother’s. Dany had neither to call onto.

 

_I am a dragon_. The mantra played continuously in his head.  _The blood of the dragon._ Hadn't Caggo warned him of this? He was still a boy-child himself, barely a man grown, barely trained. Why would they honor him with a true fight, a proper death?  It was all a joke to them, just many of their games.

 

The gate to the den opened up, letting in the cold air. Goalers stepped inside, calling out names as they snatched boys out onto the yard. There were girls too, the undesirable cast from the pleasure houses and condemned to death.

 

He couldn't breathe, the walls of the den seemed to close around him, the chains seemed to grow tighter.

 

“Dyni!” one called.   _No, please no._ But it was to be. They pulled at his chains, yanking him forward, pass the huddled up bodies until he crossed the iron threshold.

 

The sky was blue and grey, and the wind swept up the sands, yet his blood coursed hotly through his veins.

 

The herald announced each one on the field, eliciting few cheers as the gaolers released them from their chains.

 

Only half a dozen was brought out this time. His heart pounded against his chest, and the sight of the crowds nearly took his breath away. Dany felt like an animal himself, enclosed and trapped, ready for the slaughter.

 

He could feel the blood of the innocent beneath his feet, could see their torn bodies being carried away. Someone blew on a horn, signaling the beginning of the games.   _The beginning of the end,_ he thought dourly.

 

_“And now may I present to you Hamza the Old Beast!”_

 

Everyone’s eyes suddenly flew to the other den, the frightful roars that quaked from within and resonated onto the field. Quickly, hands reached for the discarded weapons, but Dany was stuck in place.  The roars were like thunder, vengeful and fearsome, and rightfully so.

 

A lion crawled into the grounds, back covered in scars, some red and fresh others old and scabbed. It lacked an eye, the socket hollow and black, an assessment of countless battles. Her snout was snarled as she hissed and growled in the young gladiator's direction. She was a ferocious thing, a prideful beast that knows it’s been done many wrongs, ready to enact her rage onto those she feels at fault.

 

She snapped at the guards who held her chain, growing even more gruesome when they struck her in response. Their whips were unforgiving, slicing through the wind at every given moment as they tried to attach her chain to the hinge.

 

The boy was caught in a fear induced captivation, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to run and cower. Instead, he stilled his trembling hands, grabbing the nearest spear he could find. It was rusted and blunted, covered in blood.  Not one person who held it before him survived.

 

A light sprinkle greeted his skin, and when he looked up it was to clouds hovering close.

 

The chain slipped right through their fingers, and before anyone could stop her she pounced on the first thing her eyes caught sight of.  A girl of ten, dressed in the exposing wear of pleasure slaves. She was so skinny, so weak and scared. The small thing barely had enough time to raise the heavy blade in her hands. The guards had left the pit with all haste, not taking the chance in becoming the next target.

 

The crowd’s screams were deafening. _More, more, more!_ They chanted, like a choir of hissing snakes. What more could these people want?  _Blood, blood, blood!_ The tongue was becoming more and more familiar to him now, at the heart of Slaver’s Bay.

 

The bronze statues of the gods glared down at them all, basking in the rituals done in their honor. The sky turned a deeper gray but the games continued.

 

The she-lion was on the hunt again, stalking further into the pit, dangerously close to all of them. Her snout dripped with blood, and she was still hungry for more.  

 

Sometimes she’d lightly graze her nails against her selected prey, throwing the weight of her body at them before narrowly missing. They’d all run and dodge her, but it wasn’t long before she snatched someone by the foot, sinking her claws and teeth into them.

 

They were all going to die, he was going to die, and he could do nothing but hopelessly stand around.  The crowd grew rowdier, the clouds grew darker and the ground was drenched in more blood.

 

Yet another child fell victim to her. The small group grew smaller. There had been six of them but now there stood only three. Her dark eyes shifted between the three of them, all spread out and frozen in place. A young boy of ten years and a boy of nine. She darted toward the latter. He thrashed at her, swinging his blunted sword into her leg.  For a moment it seemed as if she’d relent but to no avail. She bit down into his neck, with one sickening crunch and he stilled beneath her. His head was titled as she dragged his broken form, giving all who cared to look a view of his lifeless eyes. Who had he been in life, what was his real name? Whose son was this, whose child?

 

Something broke within him, and a sob escaped his lips, a sorrowful broken thing. He closed his eyes tightly as tears spilled forth.  In front of hundreds, Daeron Targaryen did what he was afraid to do even in the blanket of darkness. That boy would be him soon, if he stood and watched like a fool, like a craven.

 

_I’m afraid, I’m so very afraid_. His mind was filled with what if’s, a thousand scenarios that ended with his demise.  _I’m just a boy, a child._ But he wanted to survive, he couldn't afford to be a boy anymore if he sought to survive.

 

When he opened his eyes again it was to the sight of the she-lion bounding on the boy across from him.  Her long chain swung wildly in the air as she sped toward the slave child. He mirrored Dany, frozen and afraid.

 

Daeron’s heart beat faster as he tried to gather nerve.  For the first time, he moved with real purpose. With each step, he drew closer to her form, spear in hand.  _The chain_ , he thought,  _I must grab her chain. Lure her to the hinge._ It was only a matter of time before she grew weary and slow, belly heavy from her conquest. He’d try to use that to his advantage.

 

Everything happened so fast, even time slipped through his fingers. The chain whipped at him with every motion she made to bite into the poor child’s arm and chest as he screamed bloody murder.

 

Dany dropped his spear before grabbing at the chain, the rust scratching at his hands, making them wet with sweat and blood. Despite the fear and quiver of his knees, adrenaline flowed generously through him. He yanked the chain with all his might, falling out onto the ground.  Her head snapped toward him, eyes filled with menace. A low growl erupted from her throat, slowly stalking around his form.

 

Quickly he rose to his feet, clinging tightly to the chain. She leaped at him as he whipped the chain in a circular motion, wrapping a few inches around her neck. He dropped to the ground and rolled over, dodging her weight, never letting go of the chain.

 

It was a game of cat and mouse, her springing to catch the culprit who earned her ire and he escaping her deadly claws, leading her toward the iron hinge. With every chance he had, he threw more of the chain around her neck. The length grew smaller.

 

The rain and blood turned the sand into slush, slowing his steps, but he never stopped for a second. It would be certain death if he did.  He could have thanked every god there was when he finally reached the hinge, felt the rusted metal beneath his fingers. The end of the chain clasped onto it, finishing the job the gaolers couldn't. The rain fell down harder.

 

He was so tired.  Everything burned, and the adrenaline that’d previously given him strength and courage slowly waned. It was only a few seconds of relief before the old beast was hovering above him. He was trapped between her muscular arms, her haunched legs. Her muzzle dripped with blood. She snapped at his face but the layers of chains around her neck restricted much movement. Her eye bulged and bled as she chocked herself, her head inches away from his. The chain was loosening around her neck though, slowly unwinding in the rain. He had to act fast. His arms flailed around him grabbing a short sword, dull and rusted. The chain loosened a little more, giving her leeway to thrust her head further, her muzzle opened wide and teeth ready to maul his face.  _Do it Dany._ He plunged the blade into the back of her throat, her lifeblood slowly seeping down blade and hilt, onto his face. Her eyes looked peaceful almost, as she slumped onto her side, forcing him to crawl away.

 

Were people still here?  He could hear the light sobs of the boy, the rains and pours and the boom of thunder. It clapped loudly in the sky, louder than any beast of the earth. Daeron stood on shaky legs, looking up at the arena.  It was small compared to the Old Arena in Tolos, but the sight of hundreds drinking him in made it obnoxiously large. The nobility whispered and murmured fervently among each other, leaning over the railings to get a better glimpse of the Valyrian boy.

 

He looked back to the sobbing child, curled in a fetal position.  _That could have been me. That almost was me._ Dany goes to him. The child was going to die, and they both knew it. The child was shaking from the cold and pain. The rain seemed to wash his wounds clean, a small blessing amidst the curses bestowed upon him.  Dany kneeled down toward him, cradling his small form like Viserys used to. “What is your name?” he asked gently.

 

He wished he would have asked the same to all the fallen surrounding them.  He should have acted faster, moved faster. Perhaps, had he not been such a craven he could have saved them all.

 

The boy chocked on his own blood, every breath he drew was haggard from his crushed chest and mauled throat. He suffered briefly and then went cold in Dany’s arms. He laid the boys body on the ground, shutting the child's eyes.

 

_“Boy!”_ Dany could hear footsteps coming toward him.  _“What is your name boy?!”_ the man asked with that same bastard Ghiscari Valyrian he was growing used to. The herald pulled him up by his arm. The crowd waited with anticipation, their whispering growing louder.  _Are these people serious?_ It was as if the dead bodies scattered around the pit were invisible to them.

 

He briefly wonders if he should stay true to the name his masters gave him, but it wouldn't be the first time he didn't. “Stormborn. Daeron Stormborn.” the name his mother gave him. The man’s eyes gleamed, a smile spreading across his hard face.

 

_“Stormborn! The boy who slew the beast!”_

 

* * *

 

 

That night the shores and docks of Meereen fell victim to the winds and rain. To the brewing storm that would halt the games for a day and a night. And throughout the brothels and temples, the pyramids and manses, the name  _Stormborn_ spread like wildfire.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys think I should start adding Daeron (aka male Daenerys) chapters to this work and maybe fit in the old ones as well? Maybe rename this one "Bonded and Bondage" or something (the changes in total will be minuscule, just a few additional POVs in the past two chapters). Because I feel like on the other fic it doesn't get as much attention because the idea of male Daenerys is fairly new to this site and fandom. And I feel like some are missing a big part of these two storylines because they haven't heard of or read Bondage. I might end up doing it anyway, but I want to hear your opinions given you are the readers. I might change my mind on the subject. Idk. Tell me what you guys think in the comments and how you feel about the additional pov toward the end. Also, enjoy the chapter (and leave reviews if you can)!

**Sten**

 

The air felt warm against his skin, light and fresh in contrast to the frigid biting cold he’d grown used to.  His running feet couldn't keep up with the green rolling hills, rich with mud from the summer rains. It had patches of dandelions and small daisies, the ones his little sister used to pick for his ma. Sten didn't have the luxury of truly enjoying the sights around him, not the lovely hue of purple and blue the sky has settled in nor the setting sun on the horizon.  Oh, how the gods were cruel.

 

He hadn't meant to desert, not truly. That had not been the plan. The Lord Commander had sent parties of men to patrol beyond the Wall, see if they could capture some more wildlings to investigate about that Mance Rayder, and Sten just happened to be one of them.  He was good with a bow and arrow, better than any of the men at Castle Black. He remembers when he’d been just a boy of six and his father, a craftsman, had given one to him. It’d been the only thing he was good at, the only thing that had made him useful. Enough for Ser Alliser Thorne to let the thief stick around.  And yet that had not been enough to save the lot of them. It wasn't the savages that he feared, no. Tis something else. He had felt it in the air, whatever  **it** was, something sinister that’s for sure. The way the wind had stirred, the creeping shadows, the feeling of being watched and hunted.  One by one he and his brothers were picked off, dragged into the darkness. Only their screams followed after them. 

 

They’d been surrounded, and no amount of bows he fired into the woods could save them.  He’d wept and cried then, pissed himself scared to, but now all he did was run. To where he did not know.  Perhaps south back home, where it didn't snow and rain in summer, where gods with names and faces dwelled. He was a southern man at heart, he wasn't built for the harshness of the north nor their gods of tree, rock, and stream or the ones with blue, blue eyes.  _ Sweet, sweet Mother have mercy, O’ Father don’t judge me too harshly, for I am only a man.  _ His gods have long left him it seems, but he’d sooner be under their neglect than the northern gods' cruelty.

 

Sten was damned either way though.  _  It just isn't fair.  _  But he was a man grown now, just turned seventeen this moon's turn. He should have returned to the Wall, should've warned his brothers but...coward.  He was a coward. All Bowman are cowards, Thorne said as much. Everyone did. 

 

The hounds howled and barked after him in the far distance, alerting their masters of his every move.  He could hear the hooves trotting after him, stomping into the slush. Shouts followed his tail, and they scared him. Because when he got delirious those shouts turned into screams and suddenly he was back in the Haunted Forest again. 

 

“Over there, about that way, I think I saw him!” one called to the other. 

 

Maybe he could lose them in the dark if he was fast enough.  But his feet hurt and his heart feels fit to soar right out of his chest, his belly painfully growled in hunger and- he stopped for a moment, despite how foolish that was.

 

The woods appeared right before his eyes, filled with oaks and pines that stood proud and tall. The wind blew through them, sweeping up dead leaves and dirt and old forgotten snow. He swallowed for a moment, closing his eyes before sprinting into its skirts.  _ Warrior give me the strength that I lack, Smith give me sword to carry at back.  _

 

Owls hooted and creatures began to creep and crawl. Crickets chirped and jumped around his feet while fireflies flew about, their lights flickering on and off.  Sten thinks he ran through some spider webs a few times but he was too caught up to care. The wind howled like the wolf, and blew right through his damp furs and ripped leather. 

 

The skies slowly turned black, as black as the frostbite on his toes.

 

For a good while, he loses the hunting party until he hears voices and sees firelight through a bustle of bushes.  He ran right into a rode, filled with people sure to turn him in if they don’t kill him themselves.  _  No, no, no!  _  He’d been so close to-to...where was he going again?

 

He ducks down as someone passes by, a man clad in blue-grey plate armor with bowls of stew in his hand.  It smelled heavenly and his mouth watered, stomach reminding him of just how hungry and weary he is. It looked warm over there, with about twenty or so guards and a few women. Servants perhaps, except one. He could tell she wasn't a servant because she was pretty. Most servant girls he’d known were plain. Like Phila, a plain-faced girl from his youth who’d ended up as a servant girl.  It wasn't as if he’d done much better himself, going from thief to crow. But Phila  _ wasn't _ beautiful, not even pretty, unlike this girl.  Comely with dark hair. The campfire painted her gloomy face gold.  _ Why so sad? There are far worse things in the world than what you’re probably cryin’ about you stupid girl. _ A highborn girl it seemed, but of what house?

 

He skimmed the area further to find Stark banners posted around the camp, and felt his blood turn to ice. There was no getting around this, around them. Maybe he could wait until they all slept and slit their throats, steal some of their food and clothes, take a horse to, and armor, mayhaps some gold if they had any and be on his way. He would make it south faster, and with different clothes, on besides the black furs of the Night's Watch he could camouflage.  He would go to White Harbor, buy a passage to Kings Landing or maybe even southern than that. South as far as south goes, with his ma and sister. He’d have to be quick and quiet. Sten felt for his dagger and found that it was still there strapped to him. He’d long abandoned his sword, he’d never been good with it anyway.

 

Sten looked at the girl again, she had a harp in her hands now.  Lightly strumming the chords. The harp was an ugly thing, or perhaps just an old thing. She plucked and plucked and plucked at it, making something that looked so crude sound beautiful. All stopped what they were doing to listen, even the woods seemed to quiet down.  The song sounded familiar but he couldn't place the name, but he recalls a boy named Alan singing it before, though not as nice as the girl. It was sweet and sad though, and that’s how he recognized it. She hummed along to the tune before finishing, taking the bowl of stew from the man in grey-blue armor. 

 

His heart swelled with trepidation, almost feeling guilty for his plans. No, it was no matter if she looked pretty and played and sung nicely. She was a threat, she had to die. If he let her live she’d go run and tell her lord father and the Northmen would be back on his hide again.

 

He crept back into the woods, behind a few trees. _ I can see them but they won’t be seeing me.   _ And he would wait. The hunting party was long lost to him. They’ve given up hope of finding him more like, perhaps somewhere still in the hills, their trail going cold. Or maybe they’ve made camp on the outskirts of the woods, waiting until the morning to start chasing after him again.  But he’ll be gone by then, he was sure of it.

  
  


* * *

 

 

**Joan**

 

The day of Joan’s departure had been a somber one, but no one shed a tear, despite how much they all probably wanted to.  Instead, they spent her last remaining days on the remote isle smiling and playing like children instead of the women they’d grown to be. As if it were three more years instead of three more days before she’d have to leave.

 

She still smells the strong scent of pine and salt that she’d found on Dacey, still feels her warm embrace and the tickle of her fine inky hair. It wasn't fair, that she was sent away to befriend a group of strangers before growing to care for them, only to be sent away once again. Dacey promised that she’d be there to see Joan wed, which was in a few moons time. So, that almost made up for it.

 

For all that the road from Deepwood Motte to Winterfell was crowded with Stark men, watchdogs, and a few servants, a sense of loneliness prevailed.

 

What was she to do when she finally reached her destination? Four years may not seem a while, but in four years so much has changed, and so has she, in a way. Joan feared the moment she was back in Lady Starkś presence she would once again become that frightened little girl, eyes always wet with tears. Or that lonely girl, sulking in the shadows of her siblings light.  At Bear Island, she was just Joan, but at Winterfell, she was the bastard.  _ I won't be there for long, _ she thought with renewed fear.  _ Only for a few moons before I marry. _ Her stomach flipped at the thought.

 

She had yet to meet the GreatJon Umber or her intended SmallJon.  But she’d heard that they were tall burly men and that SmallJon was as tall as his father and still growing besides.  _ I will accept my fate with open arms and have faith that father chose well for me.  _

 

Fate was a word she had always fumbled with, had always mulled over during sleepless nights when the demons decided it was most favorable to plant their seeds. Fate for Joan seemed cold and bleak. Last Hearth was a harsh fortress, Lady Maege had once told her, filled with even harsher men molded by snow and loss and heartache.  She’d survive though, she survived Bear Island, the lone isle floating in the Bay of Ice a ways away from the Land of Always Winter. Filled with bears and snows and pine and little else. And she was the daughter of Ned Stark, much else needn't be said.

 

“Is there anything you need m’lady,” a servant girl named Jane approached her, the only one she really liked.  For Jane never called her Snow, at least not with malice. She smiled at the girl.

 

“I’d like my harp please,” the girl nodded, going near the cart to retrieve it. 

 

The woodharp was old and worn but it was all she had, all she wanted. It was hers, something that she kept after leaving Winterfell, and would take with her when she left again.  So many memories were attached to it, and when the servant girl handed it to her, she took the instrument with grace and care. 

 

“Thank you,” 

 

“Of course m’lady.”

 

She played Brave Danny Flint, something sweet and sad. Joan loved the sad songs.  She hummed to it and pictured a girl, not unlike herself, broken and filled with sorrow, alone in the world trying to find her place.  The Night’s Watch is where she goes, to young and lost to see the folly in that. And her ending is so tragic, so very tragic. Joan almost wants to cry at how sad it is but keeps it all inside. 

 

She knows all has gone silent to listen, to watch, but she’s learned how to ignore people staring at her, and softly ends the song. 

 

“Jo,” she looks up to see Jory nearing her with a bowl of stew in hand. He smiles at her before passing it over, taking a seat on the log next to her.  “We’ll be camping out here for the night. I know it may seem frightful but worry not, everything is under control. I’ll have some men stay guard. Winterfell is not to far ahead, we should reach there in two days time, three at the most but we have a light party…”

 

He went on and on, talking about their schedule before talking about home. Winterfell.  Jory says Robb’s gotten better with a sword but he’s best with a lance and Theon has always been good with his bows, but Joan didn't really care for Theon.  What she did care for was her little sisters, even Sansa. She isn't afraid to admit that being around the Mormont sisters has made her miss her own, especially Arya.  She wanted to hear all the goofing her little sister has gotten into so far. She’s heard the stories before, from when Arya wrote to her but it was different reading it from paper in contrast to hearing it by mouth.  She laughed lightly while Jory gave her a wry smile as he talked about her little sister's antics. 

 

She could picture the girl now, barefooted with a stolen pair of Bran’s breeches, messy braids and scraped elbows. The thought made her feel warm inside. 

 

“You should be heading to sleep now, we’ll have an early start tomorrow, with a long ride ahead of us.” she nodded, taking the invitation to leave for her tent.  

 

It was as warm as could be, with a reasonable amount of bearskins covering the ground to keep her comfortable.  She took off her boots and cloak, before laying down. 

 

The servant girls and men still moved about, doing their chores for the night before going to rest in their own tents and bedding. The night was quiet then, and dark for someone had put out the campfire. Clink clink went the armor.  Two shadows appeared on the flap of the tent, two men illuminated by the silver glow of moonlight. The wind whipped and howled angrily, angry like a snarling wolf. 

 

The owls hooted and the crickets chirped, the bushes rustled and the branches croaked. The lulls of sleep began to pull at her, and her eyelids felt heavy by the second before finally closing shut.

 

Joan was in that room again, but at the same time wasn't.  For it was cold here and covered in snow, so she couldn't possibly be inside a real room. It was dark and secluded, and she was faced toward a wall where the shadows danced and edged closer to her. Until she felt  _ his _ hands on her shoulders.  Suddenly it was warm and steam rose around. She could see his long red hair over her naked shoulder, a bright fiery red. Could feel his breath on her neck, eyes peering into her head. Her body cried and roared in protest, but her mind was paralyzed. She couldn't move, could not breathe.  It felt like he was slowly draining her of life. 

 

Joan had long labeled this man a demon, for what else could make her feel this? She was getting lightheaded, his large hands wrapped around her slim neck, slowly stealing air from her lungs. 

 

She woke up to the pitch black darkness.  _ Breathe in, breathe out _ , she told herself to stay steady and strong. It was only a dream. Dreams can’t hurt people. But they were growing more vivid, more real.  _  My imagination running wild.  _ She needed air. 

 

Joan sat up, adjusting her sight to the darkness, slipping on her boots and cloak, before crawling from within her tent. She regretted it soon after. The camp was deathly still and the hairs on her neck came to a stand.  Only the silver moonlight gave her aid as she walked further away from her tent.  _ Breathe in, breathe out.  _ She wouldn't let the dreams get to her, not with her impending marriage nearing so close.  She needed a clear mind, untroubled if she sought to get through it all in one piece. 

 

The guards Jory had claimed would patrol the area were nowhere in sight.  Perhaps they saw no threat and called in for the night more like. A flutter of wings catches her attention. A raven perched on the branch of a pine. The moon turned its feathers into an ashen grey, its black beady eyes gleaming ominously upon her. It let out a deep guttural croak that lasted long and long, tilting its small head to the side. 

 

Joan closed her eyes, basking in the silence, despite the danger that tingled her senses. A strong hand fell upon her shoulder then, causing her to shriek before another covered her mouth. Fiery red hair flashed in her mind, eyes as hard as steel boring into her.

 

“It’s me, Jo.” Jory chuckled as she wriggled from his grip. Throwing him a scathing glare in the process. 

 

“What is wrong with you?” she’d thought the demon had truly come for her. 

 

“This just goes to show that you should be inside your tent instead of out here. I could've been anyone.” Jory was right, he really could have been anyone.

 

Her anger turned into shame.  “I know, I was just...”  _ I was scared. My dreams scared me and so I sought escape.  _ “Getting some fresh air. I could barely breathe in there, for some odd reason.”

 

“Hm,” he regarded her for a moment, and she was struck by how much he resembled his uncle. “Well you should head back, it isn't safe for-”

 

A loud crash caught their attention, shortly followed by shouts and cries. Two of Jory’s man appeared from the woods, following after the wandering shadow that’d caused the sound.  They looked livid, and their dark leather sheened in blood, their unsheathed swords thirsty for more. 

 

“I surrender, I surrender! Please!” the man desperately cried. 

 

“Go back inside your tent Joan. Now. That’s an order.” he left no room for discussion, not that Joan would have started one.  He trekked through the snow to reach his men and the one they surrounded. All began to stir in their tents, whispering hectically, but Jory ordered them back inside.  

 

* * *

 

 

Some were too afraid to go back to sleep, so most stayed up until the sky was a light morning blue.  The man was tied to a tree, with dried blood on his swollen face. Jory only thought it right to keep the man alive until they made it back to her father, so he’d properly receive the king's justice. 

 

He was a deserter of the Night’s Watch apparently, and it wasn't long after that a bounty hunter and his men happened upon them.  They’d been trying to hunt him down the day before. The fifth deserter this moon.

 

“You’ll be compensated for your work good men, Lord Stark will make sure of it,” Jory claimed, and the gaggle of men joined them, as to make sure they’d receive their due upon reaching Winterfell.

 

There was Arvin Drox, the leader of the group, and Carner Dolf. Ashtin and Dallen, the owners of the hounds, and Eviran Durwell, some noble cousin of one house or another. 

 

The deserter sat leaned against the hard trunk, arms tied behind the thick of it. His face was swollen and covered in dry blood, beaten nearly black and blue.  Jory had chastised his men for the unnecessary treatment but hadn't done much to clean the man's face. 

 

The way he’d screamed when they came down upon him, so helpless and pitiful.  His face, it was a terror to look at, and yet she continued to look on.

 

“We’ll be leaving by midday, Joan. Get your belongings together,” Jory said as he approached her. He followed her line of sight before sighing. “Don’t mind him. Your father will know what to do with him.”

 

“You mean behead him?” the knight started at that. “I may be young but I’m no fool, Ser Jory. I know what my father does to deserters.”

 

Everyone in the north knew that House Stark’s way was the old way, and the north followed suit. 

 

“You said this was the fifth deserter this moon.  Why so many?” she’d grown up on tales of the Night’s Watch, of the honorable knights in black, and had listened in on the stories Commander Jeor Mormont sent to his sister and cherished the rare letter Uncle Benjen sent her.  _ I haven't seen my nuncle in so long. _  Besides Arya, he had to be the only family who casts no judgment upon her. 

 

Jory frowned, crossing his arms. “A young maiden like yourself shouldn't be concerned with such matters,” she flushed in embarrassment, looking around to see if anyone else was listening on.  The knight must've felt pity for the girl, for he went on to say: “But if you must know, the Night’s Watch has been in decline for a long time. It’s not the place it used to be. There are few good men who resemble the old days, like your uncle Benjen and Commander Jeor and a few others.  But the rest are green boys, others are thieves, rapist, murderers...tis a shame of what it has become.”

 

She looked back at the prisoner, at his bloodied face. “So, this one is a boy too?” A boy like Robb.  Young and bold and sometimes foolish. It was hard to see him as little more than a criminal when she had to stare at his indiscernible face, had to hear his pained moans, had to see the blood chip like old paint. Just a boy, and she...she was just a girl.   “Why did he leave the Night’s Watch? Why did he run away?”

 

Jory looked at her quizzically. “Why do you ask?”

 

“My apologies. I was just curious.”  She smiled and walked away. 

 

They were moving up the road by midday as promised.  It was fairly sunny, with light clouds. But that didn't stop the sunlight from pouring on the forest floor, turning the tree trunks and fallen leaves and snow a rich gold.  Every so often she glanced behind her to look upon the prisoner. One of the hunters, Eviran she thinks, led him by a rope, forcing him to walk and keep up pace with the horses.  He looked fit to faint. Had they even given him any water or food? Even a little, even just the leftovers? How was he to walk all the way back to Winterfell without any food on his stomach or water to clear his throat?  He’d die before he reached father, that was for certain. 

 

She wanted to stop the entourage, to give the man-the boy something to drink.  So that father could receive him properly, a living breathing person instead of a swollen corpse.  But why should she feel sympathy at all for the prisoner?

 

He committed a crime, knowing what penalty lied ahead for it.  He’s forsaken the oaths he swore before the gods, has abandoned his watch, and had he not been caught by the patrolling guards, the gods only know what someone so desperate as he would have done.  Why had he been creeping near their camp anyway? No, she shouldn't care for this boy-this man, at all.

 

But then he actually does faint, collapsing into the muddy ground. They shout at him, tugging at his rope as if he were a dog on a leash.  “Get up, gods damn you! Get up ya bastard!” The word makes her jolt in shock. The malice behind it.

 

She halts her horse, looking away from the sight, from the hopeless figure.  Jory stops to, looking back at her, and the rest of the retinue began to slow down as well. She breathes in, then breathes out, fear and worry swirling within her being.  Courage trying to prevail above them both.

 

Quickly she dismounts before it flees her, grabbing at the hip flask on her person. She tries to make her footsteps steady, strong, confident.  What she’s doing is right. For all that the prisoner is a criminal, he is a person, not an animal. 

 

They all throw her disgruntled looks, mumbling beneath their breaths, each word more scathing than the last she wagers.  Jory calls for her, commanding her to come back to her horse, but she doesn't listen.

 

“What the hell do you think you're doing girl?” A man stepped into her view, blocking her path.  Arvin Drox was a tall, middle-aged man, with a sense of youth to him. He laughed and joked and sang but at the moment the look he was giving her nearly froze the blood in her body.  The whispers were growing louder, and all were looking at her.  _  Foolish girl, _ they muttered.  _ She ought to mind her own business. _ Perhaps they were right. 

 

“He’ll die before he makes it to my-”

 

“Whose girl is this?” he looked over her into the crowd behind them, where Jory hastily stalked toward them. 

 

“My apologies.  This is Lord Stark’s natural daughter…”

 

“Ah, the bastard.” the man concluded.

 

“She’s usually a good girl but she’s being hard headed at the moment.  I’d advise her to get back to her horse and stop making a scene.” his words were stern as he looked down at her with hard eyes. He gently grabbed her upper arm, his frown softening. “Please Joan.”

 

“But-but he needs water, Jory. And food.  He’ll die before we reach Winterfell at this rate.  I know he’s a criminal but he’s still human and...would you rather present Lord Stark with a breathing man or a bloated corpse?” she earnestly reasoned.

 

His jaw tightened as he looked back and forth between the man and the young girl. 

 

Jory deeply inhaled, coming to a decision. “I swear, you and your sisters are going to be the death of me.  Be quick about it Joan.” he looked to Arvin again, eyes as hard as steel. “Would you be as gracious as to move out of the lady’s way? And mind not to step in the path of a lord's daughter again.”

 

The man merely scoffed before walking away. “She’s only a bastard,” he muttered, but for the first time, she ignored such comments. 

 

The boy was curled into a ball as if that in itself could block the world out.  Slowly, she kneeled beside him, gently touching his shoulder. He lifted his head up, bleary-eyed and swollen as he warily regarded her. She pressed the flask to his lips, and he drank without hesitation, spittle, and water spilling down the side of his face.  It formed droplets as red as rubies. 

 

* * *

 

 

They made camp at nightfall, and Jory claimed they’d be reaching the gates of Winterfell by tomorrow afternoon.  The boy was tied to a tree again, in his damp foul smelling furs. The outcast. But at least he wasn't thirsty. She broke off a piece of stale bread she’d been given with her stew, before going over to him. 

 

No one seemed to mind her tending to him anymore. After giving him water earlier she’d went on to wipe his face clean of the blood, and the hunters set on ignoring her instead of making a fuss about it.  The swelling was gradually going down to, leaving yellow bruises in its wake. 

 

Joan put the bread to his lips, in which he slowly picked from her fingers.  It reminded her of a bird. A crow. 

 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked after a while.  The first he spoke to her, though it was quiet. As if he was afraid others would hear and punish him for it. 

 

She didn't respond, only broke off another piece of the bread, pushing to his lips. He did as bid, chewing, then swallowing.  She wants to answer him, but the explanation would be too complex to give. He wouldn't understand. She broke off another piece.

 

“I was going to kill you, you know.” all movement stops at the revelation.  She looks at him with wide eyes. “I was going to open that pretty little throat of yours if need be.  Without hesitation. Had I had my way you would be a dead, dead girl right now. And now...now you feed me.  As if I were your king, and you my servant.” there was no humor in his haggard voice, only a depraved wildness.  Danger in the air. “Stupid girl.” his mouth leans toward her fingers, taking the bread from between them.

 

She’s suddenly filled with rage, a thing so terrible it makes her cold inside. Joan has the sudden urge to slap him but doesn't. “The only reason why I feed you, stupid boy, is because I want you to be alive and well when my father gives you the king's justice.  Do not mistake this for me being kind to you.” she smiles tightly, pressing another piece to his lips. But he never accepts. His eyes are wild like the wind.

 

The fool she was for being kind to the likes of someone like him.  Perhaps those around her had the right of it. But then tears begin to roll down his cheeks, as he trembles from the gust of wind that drifts by, and she feels a flood of guilt. His eyes are full of hatred, and regret, and sorrow.

 

“You ought to leave me to die. We’ll all be better for it,” he says through gritted teeth.

 

She swallows to moisten her dry throat. “You need to eat.”

 

“And why should I?”

 

“Because a clean death is better than a slow and painful one, I wager.”

 

Reluctantly, he eats more. 

 

The camp is nearly done being set up, and fire is roaring hot and red in the center where others gather around it.  Her hair blows in the winter breeze, long and free. 

 

“What is your name?” she asks.  

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“I don't,” she snaps. “I’m just curious is all.”

 

He’s silent for a little while. “Sten, my name is Sten.  There, are you happy? Now go away.”

 

Sten’s eyes have settled down now, after having his fill of more bread and water.  And she watches as he succumbs to the lull of sleep. She wishes she could give him a cover, so he can keep warm. But that’d be pushing it.

 

* * *

 

 

**Daeron**

 

The dark cell he’s in smells foul, rich with mildew and death.  A wet cold that drenches his skin and clothes. It was like he was starting from the beginning again, at where it all truly began, in that dark cold cell when he was just a boy of eleven. Now he was a man of fourteen, nearing his fifteen nameday. How could he have been so stupid as to let his rage consume him?  But Mare...his heart hurt something terrible at the thought of his friend.

 

He wanted to howl and scream, but that candle had long burned.  All he felt was defeat and loss.  _  Because of her, _ he thought with regret. But she’d been alone and afraid and...No, she was a free woman, a noble free woman, and betrothed to the very man that hated him. 

 

His back ached from the reopened wounds, and the new ones.  He’d taken an arrow near the ankle of his foot whilst charging at Master Ozel no Faer, sword in hand and ready to split the man in half.  Daeron had almost made it to him to until Zeth got in the way. Mare, the boy had been his only friend, his true friend. Of course, there were others whom Danny knew, whom he’d befriended over the years, but none came close to the friendship he’d had with Mare.

 

Daeron felt weak.  He’d lost so much blood while rotting away in this cell.  His throat felt dry and brittle, mind bordering on delirious.  He leaned his head back against the cell wall, chains rustling. 

 

_ The streets have come to life with cheer and merriment. Representatives, sailors and curious visitors pour into the brothels and taverns, the hot pools and inns.  The day had been long and hot from the summer sun, and the masters spoke of how the Great Games had come to a satisfying end. Their coffers full of gold, and their pit fighters full of food as a reward for their masters' fortune. The moon was a full one tonight, and the wind stirred and howled like the wolf, blowing through the streets and alleyways.  Though none minded, for the walls and floor were still warm _

 

_ The great manse was built of geometric proportions, styled in the ways of Old Ghis with a twist of Valyrian influence. Daeron knows that because it’s similarly built to the palaces and manses in Volantis, a city that prides itself on Valyrian agriculture and heritage.  _

 

_ There were so many portraits of masters and their mistresses decorating the grand halls. Treasures of great significance sitting beneath the paintings, each one containing a history of a time long forgotten. It smelled heavily of oils and incense, boiled apples doused in cinnamon and roses. One could see the Great Pyramid if they cared to step out into the balcony and terraces. The golden harpies gleamed in the pale moonlight, including the one on top of the large pyramid, illuminated by the burning torches.  _

 

_ The Graces of the Temples sung sweet sultry hymns.  They’d already inscribed the names of the fallen onto the wall, and boiled oils in prayer to their gods. The graces claimed that the Great Games had been the greatest the century has seen, a game that resembled the old days, with true fights, and so it called for a celebration with both renowned gladiators and masters.  Danny couldn't pinpoint the difference, it all seemed the same to him. Whether the games were of great magnitude or small games hosted in minor pits, all the fighting was true. When you are constantly trying not to die, the game is as true as it can get.  _

 

_ The red graces wear silks falling off the hip, painted nails, wet crimson lips, nose rings connected to the earrings, all smelling of sweet, sweet perfume. Pleasure slaves stood behind them, entirely naked, ready to be presented in front of master and gladiator alike.  _

 

_ He knows what the night will entail, from the way his fellow gladiators wait eagerly, eyes glistening feverishly, roaming over the bare flesh with anticipation. Even his friend Mare, and the thought was unsettling. They’d expect Danny to do it too, to lay with a women-no, a girl. All the pleasure slaves were young girls, some shy of thirteen, perhaps a bit older.  The thought made his stomach churn. He wasn't much older truth be told, but his mind was.  _

 

_ Many Wise and Good masters traveled to the harpies den, where the Great Masters dwelled, and the Fat Master was among them. Over the years he’d purchased more boys, trained and honed them with several different teachers and turned them into some of the deadliest and skilled.  More pit owners rented, and some even bought the slave boys off the Fat Masters hand, and he’d risen high because of it. Now the Fat Master was part of some sort of council among the Great Masters of Meereen, and though he was not yet a notable member his fellow masters beckoned him to come to the fine celebration anyway. Each one trying to see if they could get what the secret was that made the queer slaves from the Old Arena in Tolos triumph in almost every game.  _

 

_ Had none thought to teach their slaves more than one fighting style before? Strange. The wine tasted sour on his tongue, the first he´d ever drunken.  The beverage was brewed from tiny green grapes in the plantations up the hills. Just thinking about who made it, who was forced to make it, made him feel dirty, and yet he drank on.  The slaves were made to stand and drink, not too far behind the masters in their curtained rooms. The drapes were made of Myrish lace, so soft and thin he could see right through them. _

 

_ “To the games!” one man shouted, head leaned back and cup risen in the air.  “To the games!” they called back. “To the great harvest, the gods have given Meereen!” _

 

_ The dancing began, and the red graces crowded all around the lounging freemen, their medallions and bells jingling to the rhythm of their swaying hips.  The men started to rise from their silken cushions, entrapped in the women's crimson allure, then off they went into desolate rooms, wasting no time. Some stayed, conversing and eating and plotting. _

 

_ The music played fast and soft, but the slaves didn't dance. Not even when the girls came from beyond the curtain.  The poor things stood awkwardly and scared knowing they’d have to move eventually.  _

 

_ A wide balcony with marble flooring and four white pillars was where he stood, watching them all from afar.  He turned around to lean on the railing, ignoring the Unsullied guards watching over them. They were at least six levels above the ground.  He’d dropped a pebble to see just how far and long the drop was. There were a few times he thought about flinging himself over. Daeron could picture it almost, skull cracked and body twisted, his silver hair slowly turning a deep red from the spill of his lifeblood.  Dragons blood. He still dreamed of dragons, but none of them could save him from this life of hell. He hated the sense of serenity, the false calm and peace, because he knows it will not last forever, and it would be a long while before any of them saw it again. It was tainted besides, from the moaning and heat, the thick waft of sex.  _

 

_ The city was alive with glowing lights, laughing and singing.  Young people, like him, except they were free. Poor perhaps, but free.  Daeron would trade all the wealth in the world if it meant he could be poor and free, rather than enslaved and wealthy. It was the only reason why he never accepted the small trinkets and gifts his master bestowed upon him.  They were useless if they couldn't buy his heart's desire. _

 

_ The years have made his hands as hard as stone, calloused and stained with the blood of hundreds.  His body held scars now, each with their own story to tell. A canvas to sword and spear and fist. For a time it was only rabid beast he slew, but as he grew older it turned into boys and men. So many eyes, so many faces, so many screams, and cries. There were times when he nearly died, times where he thought he wasn't going to live to fight another day. And yet he is still here. _

 

_ Viserys has not come for him and he doesn't think his brother ever will.  The world has grown cold and hopeless, resting heavily on his tired shoulders. And there is no more room to mark the days, weeks and years on his cell wall. Was his brother dead perhaps?  Had Viserys been conned and taken for a fool?  _

 

_ Four years. He’s been a slave for four years. And it’s felt as if his entire life has drifted away. It has only just begun, he thought woefully. If that’s the case, manhood has not been kind to him. No matter how many whispered his name in alleyways and brothels as he walked by in chains.  No matter how many cheered for him during the games. The Storm, they shouted, but he felt more like a pitiful rain. _

 

_ “Boy!” the Fat Master shouted, his drunken laugh bouncing off the walls.  “What are you doing out here? As your master, I command my prized warrior to have some food! And a girl!” _

 

_ The man was fat and soft true, but his grip was strong as he pulled Daeron from the balcony. Once again he was placed back in the midst of his companions, his brothers, and in the presence of the girls.  No longer were they shy and scared, at least most of them. Most of them were drinking from the cups of their lovers, laughing while sitting on their laps. Some were...not very shy about their displays of affection.  He felt out of place, uncomfortable.  _

 

_ The master paired him with a girl.  Slim and tall, with flowing hair, nearly as pale as his own.  Two tears made of ink and needle beneath her light blue eyes, wary and curious.  _

 

_ The Fat Master assumed he was shy about laying with a woman in front of so many and had some guards escort them to a room not too far away.  _

 

_ Now he was alone with her, in a small room with nothing save a bed and vanity. He didn't know what to do with her, he wanted nothing to do with her, and yet... she was young and beautiful, Lyseni perhaps.  Under the eyes of the master she had smiled a smile so painful it was hard not to see through, and under his eyes she looked scared and the young girl she truly was. He couldn't do it, he wouldn't. The way she laid upon the bed, so vulnerable.  It reminded him of Viserys. _

 

_ He made for the door, strides steady and fast until he felt a soft grip on his tunic. He turned around to face her, to look upon her wide doe-like eyes. “No please! I’m sorry,” her lips trembled, desperate. “If you don’t they’ll know and… please.”  She placed her hands on his chest, brought her body closer to his. So very close. There was no silk, no lace, to provide a second barrier between them. He could feel the swell of her bosom, her warm breath. She smelled sweet, like lotus and jasmine, and her scent was nearly intoxicating.   _

 

_ Something was happening to him, a feeling that was starting to stir and rouse.  It burned hot like fire. The feeling made him feel trapped. “I don’t want to force you.” he felt her hand slip into his breeches, so cold it made him shiver, fingers running along his thigh. He closed his eyes. “Please, I don’t want to hurt you.” _

 

_ He snatched her hand away, suppressing a groan.  How disgusting could he possibly be? “Just let me leave, find someone else.” _

 

_ Her hands dropped, defeated.  So defeated, her eyes welled with tears. These ones were real, unlike the ones etched onto her face.  _

 

_ “No, please don’t cry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” his words fell on deaf ears. “You're more valuable a maiden.  They won't hurt you, they won't.” he couldn't believe the words that were escaping his mouth, but he had to console her somehow.  _

 

_ Quickly he left the room, he felt so unnerved and sick. Perhaps he’d drink too much wine.  Perhaps. He raced down the empty halls, down the long winded stairways. _

 

Somehow, someway, he’d made it outside the manse.  Everyone was too drunk and caught up in their own highs and lows to pay attention to him.  Had someone caught him, a guard or-just anyone, he would have been a dead man. But instead, he ran into her, hopeless under the possession of cruel wanting hands.  What had she been doing out in the streets anyhow? In the dark of night, in the hour of the ghost. He’d been too drunk to really care but he remembers saving her, not truly knowing who she was.  Soon after he was caught. The Fat Master had sent out some guards to go hunting for him. Daeron would probably be dead by now, had she not saved his hide. Told the master of how Danny saved the man's niece, Ozel’s bride. That only fueled the young master's hatred of him.

 

He tries to think of good things before he is executed.  Vaela, the girl he’d saved all those moons ago. She wasn't extraordinary in the slightest.  Dark hair and dark eyes, a strong jaw and large nose. But a part of him cared for her. A part that's been dead for a long time was reawakened upon looking at those sad, sad eyes. The part that wanted to make her smile and laugh.   It wasn't anything romantic, he wouldn't even call it love...perhaps he’d been wrong. Mare wasn't his only friend, but that had costed Mare’s life in the end. 

 

He remembered when the Fat Master had made him into one of Vaela’s personal guards, upon his niece's request.  The Fat Master was many things, but he loved his niece and would rarely deny her anything. That had been their doom of course. Still, she’d been elated when Danny was brought to the manse not too far away,  from the Old Arena. She was alone, had little to no friends, at least not true ones. Her mother, a woman from Volantis, had passed and to hold true to the betrothal The Fat Master sent for her, taking her away from everything she’d ever known.  That had been two years ago, and she was still lonely. Danny knew the feeling all too well, the unfamiliarity, doomed to always be the outcast.

 

_ The sun was at its peak.  The lilies twirled in the large pools beneath the balcony, as the wind gently blows, stirring the curtains. Vaela sat at her vanity, brushing her long dark hair.  She wore a gown of dark blue and yellow, a gown that left one breast exposed and showed off her smooth shoulders. She wore gold earrings, and a piercing on her left nipple, with beautiful elaborate henna markings that trailed to her upper arm. It was the current fashion for the women in Slavers Bay, and she’d made sure to follow suit to fit in as much as possible.  _

 

_ She turned in her seat to stare at her guard standing vigilant at the door, the one with the silver hair and deep violet eyes.  Tall and lean and strong, dressed in the black armor of the Unsullied. He must have made a cutting figure to her.  _

 

_ “Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asked, scared for the response. She’s just a girl, he thought, barely grown. She shouldn't be worrying about how beautiful she is, she should be out in the pools.  Playing and laughing and being the child she was, with friends, true friends. Not a hopeless slave boy. _

 

_ “Of course,” he said, and then she smiled, a sweet smile, awakening her soft features that had yet to truly bloom. Of course.  _

 

_ It disappeared.  She bit her lip, sinking into deep contemplation.  Then she stood, walking straight toward him, determined. He felt his body tense as she approached.  _

 

_ “Kiss me,” she said suddenly.  She barely reached his shoulders, the girl-child she was. “I’ve never been kissed before- and before I am married I want my first kiss to be from you.” with each word she lost the confidence that’d made her march over to him in the first place. _

 

_ “If anyone found out, especially your betroth, I’d hang.” Or be mutilated.  He didn't know which one was worse. _

 

_ “There are no eyes in here, save our own Daeron.  No one will know if we do,” there was a desperateness to her voice, not unlike that of the Lyseni girl from all those nights ago.  Tears began to swell in her eyes. “I don’t want it to be with him, please. Give me this and I will ask nothing else of you I swear.” she grit her teeth as she spoke, hands shaking in anger, in fear.  _

 

“I am a slave, you give me no true choice,” he uttered into the darkness of his cell, feeling as uncomfortable as he did then. 

 

_ “I am kind to my slaves,” she’d responded.  _

 

He did as she commanded.  His first kiss as much as it was hers, but it wasn't a true one.  It didn't feel right, or he didn't really feel anything at all. It didn't last long either because a slave girl had walked in on them. But Vaela had swooned with glee for days after and kissed him more and more often despite his reluctance and fear, and that was all that had mattered then. That she was happy. The friendship was a strange one, driven by empathy and mutual hatred.  He realizes now, that she was a slave, just as much as he was, even more so after the Fat Master died. 

 

The day Ozel had found out, from one of the many slaves that happened upon them, had been a great awakening.  _ No, no more,  _ he thought with sadness and pain, but his mind urged on.  He could still hear her cries, the crack of the switch in his own hands.   _ Ozel made me do it, how he made Zeth do me. _

 

_ “It’s what I deserve,” she’d cried into his arms that very night.  Somehow, she’d found her way to him, she always did. Justice, she had claimed, for abandoning her slave friend when the girl needed her most.   _

 

_ “A girl with red hair and blue eyes, from the Sunset Kingdoms,” she claimed, teary-eyed and broken. “Like you.  Isn't that funny? Father had her beaten, she always cried when he took her to bed with him, so loud I always heard her down the long hallway. He had her beaten because of it, I don’t think men like it when girls act that way with them.  Like they don’t want them. He sent her away because of that, and I let him. I didn't even try to stop any of it. R’hllor is punishing me now. A mistress should not treat her slave thusly.” _

 

_ He didn't know how to feel about that. If he should rage at her or pity her. There are no such things as gods, he wanted to say. Or maybe there were, maybe they just didn't care for the plights of men. _

 

Are the gods willing to prevent evil but not able? Then they are omnipotent. Are they able but not willing? Then they are malevolent. Are they both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Are they neither able nor willing? Then why call them gods?  

 

_ “Bad things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people. The gods do not decide that. Only the actions of others and ourselves,” he told her.  It was the only thing he could say that resembled the truth.  _

 

Those very forbidden thoughts would have him hanged by the great many.  Only then would the world truly band together. 

 

_ “Women are slaves to you know.  We are slaves, the glamorized kind, with many titles. Daughter, sister, wife, mother. So many roles to play, like puppets on a string, controlled by the men who own us all.  Do you know Daeron? Do you know that?” _

 

_ “I know.” _

 

Daeron is surprised the young master had not killed him then, but the man was content on torturing both him and Vaela. Until that fateful day. The wedding had come alas. After days of Vaela being inspected by the graces and Ozel, to see if her maidenhead was intact, he saw fit to marry her.  The Fat Master had been planning the ceremony for moons besides and the last arrangements had finally come together.

 

_ The hall was stunning, like nothing Daeron had seen before.  Not even when Viserys hosted the Golden Company in the manse of one the merchants that were harboring them. They’d all laughed at his brother, at how pitiful, at how low the Targaryens had fallen.   _

 

_ Vaela looked absolutely dreadful, even in her beautiful gown of white silk, lace, and linen. A beautiful scarf was thrown over her head with silvery patterns decorating the edges. No one seemed to notice, no one seemed to care.  They drank and laughed, joined in during the ceremonial dance, without paying a care to the miserable bride or the sinister glint in her husband's eyes. He’d cause her much pain tonight, Daeron was sure. Out of spite, and he wanted Daeron to be there for everything. To watch and see as he tore the girl-child asunder until she was little more than a shell of what she used to be. _

 

_ The hall fell silent as Ozel rose his cup in a toast, standing proud and tall as if he had any right to. “I want to be entertained,” the man's cruel eyes fell upon Vaela’s personal guard. “In the ways of Old Ghis, and as a groom of this special night, I request a game of single-combat, between to of the Old Arena’s finest. In honor of my cousin's memory!” the hall erupted in drunken cheer. _

 

The moment was surreal, like the first time he’d stepped into a fighting pit or the first time he’d killed a man. His heart stopped when he saw Zeth bring Mare into the hall. His friend's eyes had set upon him resigned. A fight to the death.  One of them would have to die that night, one or both. Mare didn't even try, didn't have the heart to. 

 

_ Are the gods willing to prevent evil? Are they not? Are they even real to begin with? _

 

Daeron had made sure to give him a quick death, a sword through the heart.  He’d watched the pain crossover Mare’s face before the light fled his eyes. 

 

_ His friend slid of his sword as the masters and mistresses cheered.  Stormborn, they called. He has reigned victorious once again. Ozel grimaced from his seat, so high up, looking down at him. Daeron’s blood boiled. You woke the dragon, he could hear Viserys voice now.  That’s who he did it for, why he killed Mare. Despite how much he told himself hope was gone, hope was still there and he could not die knowing that his brother was still out there. _

 

_ Blood ran hot in his ear.  It was some type of madness that took over him, that made him charge down the long hall, up the stairs to the smooth stone throne so high up.  So many had run toward him, guards and unsullied and they all fell upon his sword. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to Ozel. Then Zeth proved him wrong. _

 

The older man had tackled him to the ground, just as an arrow pierced the side of Daeron’s leg.  Any later, any closer to his bones and veins and he would have been done for. Not that he already wasn’t.  He’d charged at a master, with all attempts and purposes of killing him. At the man's own wedding. Daeron would do it again if he had to.  _  And now I’ll perish. _

 

_ If he managed to ever see Viserys again he’d ask his brother why? Why?  _

 

_ They’d drugged him before throwing him on a ship, one of those same foul-smelling vessels that carried slaves city to city to fight in the pits.  Perhaps he’d go to the Black Pits of Meereen, where the criminals were condemned and judged by the gods. Judgment by battle they called it, and they rarely survived long.   _

 

Is that where he resided now?  Beneath a pit for criminals? 

 

The hours morphed together before time was wholly lost on him.  Every now and again, a guard passed and threw him some bread, while he drank the water that dripped from the ceiling.  And then suddenly there is light, a bright torch flame, and voices. The light painted his cell a beautiful golden glow, revealing the cracks and holes and ridges. 

 

“Yes, this is the one. Get him.” the cell door unlocked as two men stepped in, pulling him up before yanking him by his chains to walk. He stumbled and limped from the wound he was dealt but kept up.  He’d been dealt worse besides. 

 

The red sun bored down on the bright sands, blinding his sight weakened by the dark. They descended from the gateway of an old tunnel, entering the wide premise of a yard surrounded by kennels and dens, not too far away from a minor field of crops.  Little slave children ran about, carrying basins of water and long wooden pitchforks, following after their mothers if they had one. Overhead was a pyramid, smaller than the Great Pyramid by far, and the color of teal and silver. He recognized this pyramid, the one that belonged to the handsome master whom first rented him out.   

 

For all that the pyramid was considered small by many, it had a wide entrance composed of bricks sitting on top of two large pillars, protected by a flank of guards dressed in silver and teal.  The Ghiscari soldiers hardly wore armor save hardened leather straps, much like the Unsullied, but unlike the Unsullied, they wore the colors of the master they served. 

 

There was a man standing by the entrance, dressed in a simple white robe with dark liner around his wizened eyes, ripe and dry like an old grape. He smiled a brittle smile, as much as he allowed himself to upon looking at Daeron, before speaking to the guards. 

 

“The boy will be escorted to Master Dazno no Forak in his council chamber.” the Scribe said nothing further than that, but the guards did as bid regardless.

 

Why was he here of all the places?  He should be in the Black Pits, readying himself for battle, for judgment and the sweet release of death.  He’d been in several manses but none could match the beauty and magnificence of the inside of a pyramid. There were large figures painted onto the wall, some depicting women dancing and playing instruments while their mistress sup on wine while others portray masters in their chariots taking command in battle.  Beneath each painting were ancient Ghiscari words etched into the wall, words he would never understand in a millennium. Everything was silver and teal or white and blue, the floors made of white stone and marble. He could hear the singing of women, the chiming of bells, and the strum of a harp. The only thing that was gold was the statues of cats ingrained into the walls, and a few of them were even painted. 

 

The stairs were wide and long, leading up to each level and breaking off on others.  So many halls and corridors, locked rooms and opened chambers, with people inside dressed elegantly in their vibrant colored robes. They paid him little mind, to caught up in the latest gossip or charade. 

 

Daeron felt antsy, dreadful even.  He scored his mind, trying to figure out why the young master would send him here.  Perhaps it was a cruel joke he had yet to fully understand. He would soon, however.

 

They stopped in front of the council chamber, as one guard left his side to lightly tap the door, speaking a few words.  The door slid open, revealing a lovely servant girl who reminded him too much of Vaela. 

 

She smiled. “This way.” the front of her hair was done up in elaborate braids that nearly covered the bulk of her head, while the rest rested at the dip of her back. Dressed in teal and silver.  She had the same sharp features of Dazno no Forak, except for the reddish gold of her hair and the deep blue eyes. A relative of his most like.

 

The girl led them to a table propped on the hands of a harpy.  There sat the handsome master and with him a man with strange blue hair and startling pale eyes.  His skin was paler than the Meereenese that surrounded them and he looked out of place with his eccentric attire. The man was clearly older and a little past his prime, with crows feet on the corner of his eyes and an unkempt beard, and he looked more than perplexed, though he tried not to show it.  Daeron didn't look much better either.

 

They had trays of cheese and nuts, dried cranberries and ripe figs, and sweet red wine, along with ink and parchments. The latter seeming to have had the most attention.

 

Dazno nodded at the Valyrian boy, a keen smile on his face. “Daeron Stormborn, it has been so long, but alas we meet again.” he turned to look at the strange man, “I admit I am wroth to let him go, just after having him within my very grasp. All the minor pit lords know the amount of fortune this one has given Master Faer before his unfortunate passing. But I owe Illyrio a debt, and it seems that this is how the debt must be paid.  It was a menace, bribing the slavers to take him off their hands in the first place. And what a shame that Faer’s successor would let such raw talent rot away in the Black Pits. Though I must admit at the beginning I hadn't truly believed this one would survive long-”

 

“He’s a Targaryen,” the man spoke after a while, unsure of his own words.  He studied Daeron in a manner that uneased him. “The blood of the dragon, it is in the dragon’s nature to prevail.”

 

Master Dazno smirked, a queer glimmer in his eyes.  “Why yes, of course. The famous blood of Old Valyria.” it was almost mocking, the way he spoke. 

 

The man hasn't aged much, save a few lines here or there but they were hardly noticeable. Still cruel and calculating, sharp with an austere beauty and the grey hairs of old age.

 

“Well, all has been said and done.  The boy is yours, do with him as you please.”

 

The blue haired man tried hard not to grimace, coming to an abrupt stand.  Daeron hadn't even noticed the Unsullied standing behind his seat. Some strong and lean others plump and red. A fat unsullied, that was something he hadn't seen before.

 

Master Dazno’s guards escorted them out of the pyramid, into the kennels where some camels stood, carrying sacks of water and food. A few slave boys came running toward them barefooted ready to release the camels from their stalls.

 

They lead the camel's outside the perimeter of Dazno’s pyramid, before running back to their masters home.  All was silent save the steady wind.

 

“Boy,” Daeron startled at the sound of the man's gruff voice. The man noticed it too, even looked guilty almost. “If I unlock your chains, can I trust you not to do anything foolish?”

 

Daeron remained silent, silent and distrustful.  Who was this man? Why has he bought him and how did he find the means to?  He didn't look rich at all, didn't look like a master, not even a relatively rich magister or merchant.  And who was this Illyrio? The one whom Dazno owed a debt to and used Daeron as payment? The thought made his skin crawl.

 

The silence was long and painful.  The man was losing patience by the minute, face growing red with anger.

 

“Are you what they say you are or are you nothing more than a pretender?” then the man sighed, anger suddenly disappearing. 

 

“By all rights, you are a free man now, despite what anyone says.  I have the papers to prove it, to give to you if need be. You can take a camel, leave and be on your merry way.  But you will never truly be free, not without any money or skills to attain it. You’ll be back in the pits again before you know it, and this chance at freedom, it will never be given to you again.  If you are who they say you are...Daeron Targaryen, then follow me, into the Free Cities and out of the land of the harpies.”

 

The man nodded at one of the unsullied, throwing them a pair of keys. “Unchain the boy.”

 

The guard was quizzical but did as commanded. The chains fell to the ground with a loud thud, clinking at his feet on the hot sand. Red from rust and moist from sweat.  Daeron rubbed his tired wrist. A freeman, the very words felt unreal. Was this a cruel joke? Would Ozel put in that much effort to crush his soul? This chance at freedom, a freeman. He felt his hands shake, his knees beginning to tremble, and suddenly he can't support his weight anymore. 

 

The man rushed to him, frightened and alarmed, catching Daeron before he could fully hit the ground.  A freeman.

 


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT PLEASE READ: Hey guys, a note before you start reading. This is really important. I’ve included three new pov’s, one being the character “Sten” which you've read before. These additional characters are for the most part entirely around the two main characters, yet when you read their pov chapters it’ll start from a different point in time, maybe even the “beginning”, and from their own perspective. Like for instance, in Sten’s pov they finally arrive at Winterfell, then time passes and other things happen, and then let’s say Joan’s pov is next and it starts at the moment they arrive at Winterfell again. In some characters POV’s things can be happening at the same time as another character POV’s, and I say this because I don’t want people to get confused while reading. To quote George, though I wouldn't dare compare my writing to his : 
> 
> “A Note On Chronology
> 
>  
> 
> A Song of Ice and Fire is told through the eyes of characters who are sometimes hundreds or even thousands of miles apart from one another. Some chapters cover a day, some only an hour; others might span a fortnight, a month, half a year. With such a structure, the narrative cannot be strictly sequential; sometimes important things are happening simultaneously, a thousand leagues apart.”
> 
> What I’m doing is something similar to that, except the characters are very close at moment and their point of views often intertwine. I hope you guys understand. Man, this is hard, Idk how this guy does it lol.

 

  
**Jory**

 

The domes and soaring towers of Winterfell were apparent through the treetops.  The sky was at its morning blue, while everything below it was still succumbed by darkness. Some held torches to light the way on the widening road, moving steadily down its icy path.

 

Jory sat astride his horse, watching out for the little maiden.  The girl had grown quite lovely over the four years she’s been away. No longer was she the scrawny little shy thing hiding behind her brother, more bones than anything else. The Mormonts had shaped her out really nicely into a true northern maiden.  Perhaps too true.

 

He’d wanted this trip to run as smoothly as the last, and yet he ran to one discrepancy after the other.  First with the deserter stumbling into camp, then the bounty hunter’s joining along their retinue, and now the girl was tending to the deserter as if he were a wounded soldier and not a criminal.

 

She was Ned Stark’s daughter alright, good heart and all.  He respected it of course, just didn't appreciate it at the moment.  There were a time and place for those type of things and had that Arvin went any further than a few blunt words it would have resorted to blood, Jory was sure.

 

“How long until we reach Winterfell?” Joan asked.

 

“Not long, it’ll be some hours before we do though, but not long.” and good riddance when they finally did. He could sleep on a proper bed, next to a warm hearth, and have a proper meal after.

 

The girl sighed.  She was weary and anxious, no doubt for the moons that lay ahead of her. Joan Snow was a woman grown now after all, and all had known that Lord Stark would someday marry her off to one of his bannerman.  At least those who were close to him. Jory always thought it’d be to House Reed, the son of that Howland Reed fellow. He remembers when the strange crannogman had come to Winterfell, to swear fealty to House Stark. An oath old and ancient, from the days of the Kings of Winter.  The Reed’s had seemed the best option, in his opinion. Though his opinion doesn't really matter.

 

The girl was too soft-spoken for the likes of an Umber, to gentle and melancholy. She wouldn't fare well among those rough men. _I could have married her,_ the thought came unbidden. _No, I could not have._ Bastard she may be, but she was a noble bastard and the supposed daughter of Ashara Dayne. Or some other noblewoman, perhaps. Whoever this woman was, Lord Stark cared for her deeply.  It shows in the way he treats the woman's daughter.

 

He drew his horse closer to hers. “It’ll be alright little Jo.” he gave one of his wry smiles, before riding ahead.

 

 _Thank you_ , she whispered, as faint as the wind.

 

* * *

 

 

They arrived at the gates of Winterfell a little past noon, the castle fully awake by that point.  Jory’s men, along with the bounty hunters, went to the Guards Hall, while the deserter was taken to Winterfell’s cells.  He liked not the way the criminal's eyes seemed to linger in the girl's direction, yearning and hopeful.

 

Jory walked Joan to her father’s solar immediately after.  The woman-child had looked disheartened to not see her family waiting for her at the gates but it was for her own good. Besides, Lord Robb was attending lessons, as well as the little ones and Lord Stark had wished to speak with her privately first thing anyhow.  It was convenient and it would be in everyone’s best interest to avoid putting on a show, it wouldn't do to affront Lady Stark on the girls first day back.

 

Their walk was a silent one, and he found himself looking her way every so often, truthfully concerned.  The girl was nervous to see her own father, that much he could tell, but she was even warier of being at Winterfell.  Jory doesn't quite remember why she was sent to Bear Island, save that Lord Stark sought to mend wounds between Mormont and Stark and did so by fostering Joan on the lone isle.

 

Old Nan had been disgruntled with the arrangement, having had been like a mother to the girl, but resigned with it.  He vaguely recalled the woman calling out for the girl in the nursery only to remember she was no longer there. But none was more saddened than Arya Stark.  Jory smiled to himself, knowing the surprise the lass would be in for at the sight of Joan. The two have always been as thick as thieves, and that has yet to change.

 

Jory knocked on the solar door.  They waited for a moment before Lord Stark swung the door open, releasing a gust of warmth, and a rich smell of pine. The Lord smiled at Jory, nodding his head in greeting, but when his eyes landed upon his daughter it lit up, with a smile filled with joy rarely seen on the stoic lord’s face.

 

“Come in,”  

 

They did as bid, Joan taking a seat while Jory remained standing. “My lord, there are some bounty hunters in the Guard Hall awaiting a reward for catching the deserter.”

 

“Another one?” the Lord said, as he took a seat behind his desk. “What is it, the fifth or sixth this moon?”

 

“I believe so my lord. This deserter came upon us at the dead of night, however. I’m not quite sure if the hunters are truly owed anything, given we caught the crow first, but they insist.”

 

Ned Stark shook his head.  “Very well then. I’ll handle matters latter.  Tell your nuncle to have them wait in the Great Hall. I know you’ve had quite the journey”

 

The knight contemplated whether he should tell Ned Stark about Joan’s worrisome interest in the deserter.  Nuncle Rodrik had told him there was always a time and place for certain things, and sometimes there aren't. Nay now was not the time.  He’d tell his lord later.

 

Jory nodded. “Yes my lord.  I’ll leave you two to it.” he looked at Joan one last time, giving her a smile when she looked back, before leaving out.

 

* * *

 

 

Jory was not surprised when he ran into little Arya.  It was only a matter of time before word would reach her ears about her sister's return, and find means to get to her.  He’d found the girl hiding in one of the nooks, curled up like a ball. Her dusty grey dressed camouflaged against the wall and cushion, and if one were in a hurry they would have passed her by, oblivious to the little girl hiding in the shadows.  But Jory had been in no hurry. He’d already rushed to tell his nuncle Lord Stark’s commands, and now took his time as he made his way to his chamber.

 

“Running from your lessons again I see.” the girl sported a mulish expression, having been caught red-handed. “You know it’s only a matter of time before your lady mother comes looking for you, and she always finds you.”

 

“That need not be today.” the additional voice caught him unawares, as he turned around to face its owner. It was Joan, with a crooked smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes.  Arya jumped up from the old cushion and shot like an arrow into her sister's arms. The elder girl spun her around in a tight embrace, the two giggling and gushing all the while.

 

“Oh, how I’ve missed you, little sister.  I have so much to tell you!”

 

“And I have so much to tell you!” Arya leaned back to truly grasp Joan Snow, and Jory did the same. The woman-child was glowing with happiness like Jory had never seen before.  The bond between the two sisters was a true one, one that never wavered or waned no matter how long the two spent apart.

 

“Don’t ever leave again!” the child went on to say, and the maidens disposition faltered before springing back forth.  Only this time her smile was a little dimmer, sadder. Arya couldn't have known that her sister came back only to leave once more, and she’d have to learn sooner or later.  He gave Joan a knowing look, one she returned.

 

“I’ll leave you two to it then.”

 

“Jory wait!” Joan called, halting him in his steps. She settled her sister down, the girl's feet stubbornly reaching the floor.  “Arya, I’ll be with you in a minute. Go to my chamber, it’s the one down the hall from yours. I’ll need some help unpacking my things if you're up for it.”

 

Arya was reluctant at first but gave in at her sister’s pleading look.  Joan’s grey eyes were on him again, as she drew herself closer, nervously looking around them.  Searching for hidden ears or wandering eyes, only speaking when she found none.

 

“I need your help with something,” she whispered.

 

Jory sighed, already knowing. “Is this about the deserter?  Listen, Joan-”

 

“Jory please,” she pleaded. That grey as steel gaze undying and passionate.

 

She grabbed his hand, earnest in her pleading. It felt warm and smooth, a slim thing with wiry fingers and a silver ring that hadn't been there before.  Lord Stark must have given it to her not to long ago. _No,_ he could easily say it and she’d have to listen.  But he was a damn fool swayed by a maiden's charm, a charm she didn't even know she was enforcing.

 

“I need to speak with him, if only for one last time. It’s important,”  Jory’s confusion was as plain as day, forcing her to elaborate. “It’s about the wildlings and Mance Rayder and how they’ve been raiding the Gift that is not too far from Last Hearth, where I’ll be heading soon.  You don’t need to tell father. I’m not scared, I can handle myself well enough, Lady Mormont made sure of it. I just-I need to know what I’m heading into.”

 

There was much hesitance, but he found himself giving away to her reason, despite how little sense it made.

 

“Alright,” he said, like an idiot, about to go along with some foolhardy plan.

 

* * *

 

 

After a much-needed rest, he went to the Great Hall to grab luncheon.  A simple meal of bread and sharp cheeses with meat. A side of black beer to wash it all down. He found his nuncle sitting at one of the trestle tables, talking it up with Jim, a right proper lad who was sharp with a spear.  And across from them sat Lord Robb and the Greyjoy. Jory took a seat next to his nuncle, settling his food on the table before tuning into the conversation.

 

He was content on listening to his uncle speak on spear techniques and the two lordlings joking amongst each other until Robb got his attention.

 

“Ser Jory, it’s good to have you back.  How fares my sister?”

 

“Joan is well.  The last I saw her she was with Arya.” he lied.  The last time he saw her, she was holding his hand, desperate to see the deserter and devising a plan to do so.

 

Robb chuckled. “That seems about right.  The two have always been close.” he sobered a little.  “Do you think she’s changed much, from what you’ve seen of her?”

 

 _Yes_ , he wanted to say, _very much so._

 

Jory shook his head, taking a bite of cheese. “She’s the same girl she’s always been.  A little bolder perhaps, but more or less the same. Shy and quiet, and kind.”

 

“Bold?” the lordling questioned, raising a brow.  The Greyjoy only smirked, crossing his arms almost knowingly.

 

“Tis a long story.  Something to do with the deserter.”  Jory was vague as possible but the Greyjoy’s smile only grew wider.

 

Jim piped up from the conversation with Rodrik. “Oh, I heard about that from my friend Tom. The she-bears have turned little Snow into a wolf it seems. Who would have ever thought, the little quiet Snow.  You think she carries a weapon now? I hear all the women on Bear Island are trained to fight.”

 

“Do you think Small Jon will like that?”  Robb asked with a small little smirk, nothing short of proud. Strange, but then Jory remembered when Robb and Joan practiced archery with one another, the boy eager to help his sister in the craft.

 

“It’ll do the girl well to have some spine if she’s to be the next Lady Umber. Their house is an old house, filled with rough men hardened by the cold. They won't tolerate anything less.” Rodrik added, sipping his tankard of ale.

 

“Not to mention the wildlings. It’ll serve her well to know how to fight if only to protect herself.” Robb added and the table grew tense. The thought was daunting, to think that between the Karstarks and the Umbers, Lord Stark chose the latter.  In Jory’s opinion, the Karstarks would have been the safest option. They wouldn't have to worry much about the ironborn attacking the Karhold, not with the Greyjoy heir under Ned Stark’s nose, and wildlings rarely traveled that far south. Yes, she would have been the wife of a second son or a lord’s brother twice her age, but she would have been safer for it.  Then again, Jory’s opinion didn't quite matter in the grand scheme of things, and it wasn't his place to doubt his lord’s decisions, nor was Joan his concern. And yet...

 

He remained silent while the others talked, finishing up his food.

 

“I hear the execution will be held off until the morrow,” Theon said, changing the subject. “Apparently the crow is madder than the last.  Keeps blubbering about blue eyes and white skin.”

 

“Maybe the wildlings scared him that badly.”

 

“Maybe so.”

 

Soon, they were finished with their meals and began to filter out.  He caught his uncle right before the man left, mind heavy.

 

“I’ll take the night shift nuncle.  I need to get back into my routine. Maybe even look after the deserter for a bit.” he tried to appear as casual as possible, hoping his uncle couldn't see through his facade.

 

“Are you sure? I know you’ve already had a long morning.”

 

Jory shook his head in response. “Nay, I’ve already had my share of rest. You’ve been working as equally as much.  Sides, you're getting old.” he joked. The man only grumbled with a faint smirk.

 

“I bet I could still knock you on your arse in a fair fight, old age be damned.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Sten**

 

 _Why did you run away?_ She asks him continuously, as they tread upon the road to Winterfell. Sten never answers her, doesn't even bother her with a glare. It must be stifling to her, to see him freeze up, to watch as his eyes go blank with dread and foreboding.

 

But after her relentless prodding, he answers her.  Something gives away inside of him, that insufferable need you get when you just have to tell someone, anyone, to get the burden off your chest.  What harm would it do anyway? He was a dead man walking, what he said or did, didn't matter in the end. Nor did it matter if she believed him or thought him a madman.  Only time would reveal the truth to her. He’ll be long gone by then, but she’ll know when the blue-eyed demons come, she’ll know and she’ll remember him. Sten the cowardly madman who abandoned his watch, but not without reason.

 

“I was with my brothers, scouting beyond the Wall at the command of our Lord Commander.  We were hunting for wildlings,” he spoke suddenly, out of the blue. The entourage was taking a short break at a coffers cabin.  Feeding their horses and themselves. He sat beneath a thickly wooded pine, bound by rope as she fed him bits of dried fruit. It felt nice to have her fingers grace his lips, ever so slightly.  Nice to smell her sweetness and be in her presence. The feeling fluctuated between love and hatred, a twisted hassliebe for the daughter of the men who’ll soon have his head.

 

“They’d been raiding small villages near the Gift, stealing women and children and murdering the men. The raids have been rising each year, and Lord Commander Mormont felt Mance Rayder responsible for it.  We heard whispers of the King Beyond the Wall, but only now do we hold them true.”

 

She halted in her movements, pretty face quizzical as she studied him.  “So that’s why you ran? Because of the wildlings?” he could hear the nerves in her voice, trying to stay steady as she spoke.  But fear resounded in her. He’s known fear well enough to see it in someone else.

 

“Nay,” he continued, much to her confusion. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of wildlings,” he lied. “It was something else, something far worse.” Sten closed his eyes and shuttered, no wind in sight.

 

“Joan!” the guard, Jory, calls for her then. “Joan it’s time to move, get back on your horse.”

 

She was reluctant to leave Sten’s side but relented to her guardians' demand. Still, his words stuck with her, he knows that for certain. He was desperate almost, to tell her more, to warn her so that she may warn others.

 

* * *

 

 

When they finally arrived at their intended destination, Sten was thrown in the cells beneath Winterfell.  It was bitter and cold, just as he expected it’d be. No matter. He leaned against the black bars. The girl was gone, somewhere above him perhaps with her lordly father. None had come to greet her at the gates, save the stable hands who took her horse.  The girl Joan, was a bastard. Joan Snow, not Stark. He had seen the way she looked around the yard expectantly, only to be disappointed. She wasn't so high and mighty after all. If she were wise, the first thing she’d do when she sees her lord father is speak of the things Sten told her.  Of the wildlings and their King Beyond the Wall, along with the Others who attacked him in the woods all those weeks ago.

 

As the hours passed he sunk further and further into depression.  Everything was black and hollow, foul and cold, and he couldn't see anything.  Not even a shred of light from the world above him. _It doesn't matter,_ he told himself, _you’ll see the light soon enough._ Sten _would._ When they finally decided to execute him.  They plan to hold it off until the morrow he knows, the lord has more trying matters to handle instead of another deserter.  And it’s been so long since Lord Stark’s seen his bastard girl, apparently.

 

Sten could still feel her soft hands tending to him, feeding him, nurturing him. A single kindness before death, to be tended to by a maiden, bastard or not. The deserter chuckled, then wept, for the end was truly nigh. They were coming.  Footsteps echoed on the crooked stairs, descending further into the dungeon. Closer and closer a burning light came, along with a black silhouette on the grey wall.

 

But no, it hadn't been any of the guards or that Jory fellow.  It was the girl Joan, fair and dark, like a black angel.

 

“What are you doing here?” he startled.  “Why did they let you in?”

 

“My friend let me in,” she kneeled beside his cage, bringing her candle closer. “And I need to talk with you about the wildlings and this Mance Rayder.”

 

“Why does it matter to you?  You should be worrying about the white walkers.” Sten grumbled.

 

Joan hesitated to respond but soon gave in. “I’m marrying soon, near the Gift where you claim raids have been happening.”

 

Sten scoffed.  “Don’t worry your pretty head over it, I’m sure you’ll be well protected.  Your a lord’s daughter.”

 

“The Umbers have had daughters who have been stolen despite being the daughter of a lord. Being a lord’s daughter won’t save me,” she argued back, then sighed.  “Can you at least tell me what he looks like?”

 

“What he looks like?”

 

“Yes, what he looks like. Like, the color of his hair or his eyes… Is his hair red?” she began to ramble on about it.  Sten was greatly confused. Why would she want to know something like that? And why does she think he’s actually been close enough to this Mance Rayder to know?  He’d only seen the man briefly before he deserted, and in those brief moments, Sten rarely studied him. When he asks she only shrugs and says, “I’m sure others have seen him before, when he was still a brother of the Night's Watch.  I just thought that maybe you’d know. Nevermind, this was stupid.”

 

She readies to leave, but then he stops her, desperate for the light and her company. “His hair is brown I think, I’m not sure, but he’s an older man so I wouldn't be surprised if it was grey now.”

 

As he spoke she looked hopeful for a moment, to have finally had some missing piece to a puzzle, and then it faded.  No, not the man she seems to be searching for.

 

“Why so disappointed?  Are you planning on running into some wildlings arms to escape your groom to be?  Listen, there are more important things to worry about, like the white walkers. I know you don't believe me, I know you think this is a madman's rambling, but what reason do I have to lie?” Sten points out. He gripped the bars of the cell. “There was ten of us when we left the Wall and only two of the things that hunted us like animals, and yet I am the only one that remains.”

 

“It could have been wildlings,” she responded, but her face looked paler than usual, eyes wide.

 

“Do you really think two wildlings are capable of taking out ten brothers of the Night’s Watch?  Our weapons are _superior_ to theirs, our fighting _better_ , and we had horses. It wasn't no wildlings, stupid girl. These things, these _demons,_ they had weapons made of ice, and I’d never seen anything move the way they moved,” Sten was trembling now.  He closed his eyes, lost in the memory, in the fear. “They wore the perfume of death and their eyes were a deep blue. You need to tell your father or write Benjen Stark or the Lord Commander.  Tell anyone and everyone who cares to hear. Tell them that the walkers are coming, that winter is well on its way!”

 

Sten was shouting now, face pressed against the bars, shaking violently.  The girl had backed herself up against a wall, frightened. “Why did you run away then?” she asked, assertively. “If what you say is true, you should have warned your brothers and your Lord Commander, not come further south. So why did you run away?”

 

The boy was at lost for words.  How did he respond to that? “Because…” he began, licking his dry lips. There were so many reasons.  He wanted to go home for one, to his ma and sis. Wanted to take them far away, perhaps to Dorne or even further than that.  Far away from Westeros, where there would be no fear of white walkers or the deadly cold that came with them. When he thought about it, that was the only real reason, but things are different now.  If he could not warn his family he could warn others, and it just so happened that he was captured by the Stark’s. Maybe they’d remember the old northern tales that they pride themselves on so much, of the Long Night and the fight for dawn.

 

He tells her this, and before he knows it he’s a weeping mess.  He’s too afraid, too anxious, to feel any shame crying in front of a girl like that. Suddenly, there’s a warm hand upon his own, then another upon his face. Soothing him, how his ma used to when he was a boy. Sten melted into the touch and cried some more.  Perhaps too loudly, because it wasn't long before another pair of feet hurried down the steps. The Jory fellow.

 

“Joan,” he called, rather perturbed. “You need to hurry and leave. Now.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Joan**

 

“Father?” she called after Jory left. She’d been greeted by the overwhelming warmth of the large hearth.  It’s been so long since she felt a hearth burn hotly.

 

Ned Stark stood and she stood with him.  When he looked at her he startled, face going slack for a brief moment before smiling. “Joan? Gods, is that really you? Look how big you’ve grown sweetling,” he made to hug her, and it felt good to be in her father’s arms once again.  “And the beauty you've grown to be.” his smile disappeared.

 

Her hair was done in a single braid thrown over her shoulder, a few tendrils sticking out.  She wore a dark grey surcoat, so dark it almost appeared black, over a dark blue skirt. Her skin stood out starkly against the gloaming attire. All of her baby fat had trimmed down, leaving nothing but strongly dark features that screamed Stark, sharp cheeks that rested on her slightly long face and a smooth delicate jaw.  Among the reigning dominance of the northern look, there was a softness that dwelled within the shape of her eyes and the slope of her nose, the plumpness in her lips. Even through the eyes of the prejudice, Joan could be considered a pretty girl, if not a beautiful one. She had yet to decide if that was a blessing or a curse, after all, she carried a woman’s body now. Sweet and fresh and ripe for picking.

 

“You wished to speak with me?”

 

“Aye, I did have a seat.”

 

It’s been so long since she’s sat in her father’s solar, so long since she’s been in his presence.  She remembers coming in here with Robb to sit at father’s feet as he regaled them with tales of his youth. Robb would always beg for one, but Joan somehow knew that it was best not to ask at all. Her brother would listen with attentive glee, never seeing the wistful look in their father’s eyes, the somber in his voice. When they were alone she used to sing to him, but that had just made him sadder and so she stopped.

 

The seat felt familiar, comfortable even, despite being old and worn.

 

Instead of sitting behind his desk, he positioned a seat across from her, regarding her one last time.  He opened his mouth to speak before closing it, then went on to close his weary eyes.

 

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve never been good with words Jo. You...you will be married soon.” he couldn't believe it himself, it seemed. “You’ve had many offers, good offers, but...I only want what’s best for you.  The Umber’s are loyal and proud and...gods I hate this.” he leaned back in his chair, sinking further into a perplexed state.

 

“Its alright father,” she smiled. “I’m grateful and...I don’t think anyone in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms could be as good of a father as you to-to someone like me.  I’m a bastard and yet...you’ve done so much for me and...thank you, father.”

 

“Could you ever forgive me? You didn't really...I admit I didn't give you much of a choice.  I wish there was another way, something else I could do to protect you. You barely know Lord Umber’s son, save a few things from the letters he sent you, and now you're supposed to marry him.  I would not fault you if you grew wroth with me, started yelling and screaming and riding away into the wind...you wouldn't do that, would you? It’s no matter. I’m sorry, gods I hate doing this to you, forcing you into this but I want you to have something, a life of your own, children to care for and love and a husband who’ll treat you good. I want that for all of my daughters-all of my children. I don’t want to let any of you go but..winter is coming and you are all growing older.  Soon it’ll be Sansa’s turn, then Arya’s.” he deeply sighed.

 

“Father,” she was at lost. “It is alright, I know that you mean well, and I want this. I really do.” she thought for a moment. Was her situation all so bad?  She was marrying a northern lord, the heir to an old and noble house. _I’m apart of the lucky few.  Some bastard girls would kill to be in my position._ Children of her own, a noble husband, and a house to tend to. Maybe SmallJon would even include her in his rule, would let her sit in on meetings, make tedious decisions, and hold court. How father treated Lady Stark. He always asked for her opinion on a matter and _listened_ , sometimes even followed through with her decisions.

 

“You do?” he inquired, face flickering in brief surprise before subsiding.

 

“Yes. Marriage is my protection, marriage is what will keep me safe.  And it isn't all so bad. I hear that SmallJon is a good man, like his father. And he seems kind, from what he’s written to me so far.  Besides, Last Hearth isn't that far away. I’ll still be here, in the north, and I can always come and visit…”

 

Generations from now in the tomes that’ll be forged maesters will write of the years after the Rebellion and the Stark family tree woven further, and her name will be lost and forgotten, for she’ll lead a simple life.  So simple none will care to remember it. Or maybe she’ll grow to love SmallJon, and their love will be so great and wondrous to behold that bards will write songs of it. _Maybe I’ll write them myself._ To lead a life of happiness and simplicity, the thought was surreal, otherworldly, like something out of a tale. _And they all lived happily ever after, the end._  No one ever got this lucky, so why should she?  The gods have always been cruel to her, why would they suddenly stop now? _Please don’t take this away from me,_ she silently prayed. _Please let this be good, please._

 

“Would that things didn't have to be this way to make you feel marriage is the only thing that can protect you.” he seemed to be looking for something, searching her face for honesty and something else she couldn't quite name. Whatever it was, he gave up hope on finding it. And seemed relieved.

 

_Would that the world was different._

 

She thought about Sten then.  Alone, in the dark cold cells of winter. His name would not be remembered, for he was just more the same as every other deserter.  There would be no songs for him, no happy ending. Who was he really? No one knows, and no one ever will.

 

“A deserter came into our camp,” she said suddenly.

 

“I’m aware of that.  It’s a good thing I sent as many guards as I did.”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

She doesn't mention that Sten would have slit her throat had father not been so precautious.

 

* * *

 

 

There would be hell to pay come morning.  Joan had spent the rest of the day unpacking, and catching up with her siblings. Rickon was still very much a babe if only a little bigger. He slobbered on her dress when she hugged him and raised hell when upset.  Bran, on the other hand, had become a skilled climber, and a curious child with a curious nature. Robb would always be her older brother, tall and handsome and talented, the perfect heir, to wrapped up in his lessons to spare mind to Joan. What surprised her most though, was Sansa’s excitement upon seeing her again.  She hadn't expected the red-haired child to run into her arms the moment she caught sight of her or babble on about the stories she read and the dresses she made and how skilled she’d become over the years with a needle and thread. Even sadly inquired why Joan had not written her when she was away. It made sense then.  Sansa was a bit envious of the number of letters Joan wrote everyone else. It wasn't that Joan had not wanted to write to her sister, she was only afraid Sansa wouldn't care for them. She was wrong in that it seemed, and admittedly feels guilty.

 

“You're going to be wed Joan,” Sansa had exclaimed happily. “Are you excited?”

 

“Wed?” Arya had doubled over in exasperation. “Wait, you're leaving again?”

 

Joan had not known how to respond to either of those questions and so she nodded jadedly as she nibbled on her luncheon. Her mind was beneath Winterfell, in the cold dark cells where Sten miserably dwelled. She’d managed to convince Jory to let her in the dungeon, to talk to the deserter and for some absurd reason he agreed.  The thought of marriage made her stomach roil, and wildlings even more so. And it just so happened the two seemed to tie together.

 

Joan wished she was still at Bear Island, with Dacey and the rest of them, crossing swords and running along the coast.  Where she was happy and content, with her wedding day far away. Everything was ruined now, and that alone made her feel a bit of resentment toward Small Jon. _No that type of thinking needs to stop_ , she tells herself and listens begrudgingly.

 

When midnight had finally come and the castle slept, she snuck out with a single candle for light to the opening of Winterfell’s dungeon where Jory waited for her.  He unlocked the barred door and let her descend down the steps.

 

Sten had been surprised to see her, and eager to. Almost as if he’d been waiting for her, so that he may once again tell his tales of white walkers and the Long Night.  It frightened her, that kind of talk. Because what if he were telling the truth? What if he saw what he claims to have seen? What would that mean? Winter is Coming, the Stark words had a renewed meaning or perhaps the words have always meant that, and maybe everyone’s forgotten. And then there were the wildlings. The King Beyond the Wall was not the man in her dreams, but an older man with brown or grey hair, instead of the fiery red burned into her mind.

 

Everything at the moment scared her, including the trouble she’s sure to be in after being caught wandering the halls so late at night, by Lady Stark no less. Joan had no doubt the woman’s already told her father, and that is why she is now being escorted to her lord fathers solar by a guilty looking Ser Jory.  He doesn't say it but she knows he’s sorry for whatever reason. At least he hadn't been caught helping her.

 

Father wasn't completely wroth with her, more worried than anything else.  “What were you doing out so late Joan? And tell me the truth. You don’t have to lie, you're not in trouble, I just wish to know.”

 

“I…” she began. Joan couldn't lie to father, she just couldn't. He’s been so good to her, all her life he’s been good to her.  The least she could do in return was being honest. “I wanted to see the deserter.”

 

Father frowned. “The deserter?” he said, arms crossed.  “Why would you need to see the deserter, Joan?” his voice grew stern.

 

She was in for it now. “Because, I...well, he-”

 

“She’s grown to care for him deeply, my lord,” Jory spoke for her. “I believe she’s even come to see him as a friend. Her empathy knows no bounds.”

 

“And what would you know of this Ser Jory?”

 

“I saw as she cared for him, my lord.  I suppose the bounty hunters treated the deserter to harshly and Joan made a point to help him. If it weren't for her, I believe you would have received a corpse instead of a live man, my lord.” Jory spoke with certainty, and for that she was grateful.

 

She waited with bated breath for her father to respond. “Very well then,” father sighed, rubbing his temple. Then stopped, fixing her with a worried gaze. “You do realize that today he is to be executed, Joan?”

 

Her blood froze. Yes, she knew, and it made her feel numb inside. After everything Sten had confessed to her, after long days she spent caring for him and being around him, seeing him as a person instead of a criminal. Joan has become familiar with him, has grown to care for him.  So yes, she knows he’s to die, and she knows that she doesn't want him to die either.

 _No, no tears,_ she told herself.  She hated how sensitive she easily got, especially around father. _Because he allows me to be sensitive unlike everyone else,_ she thought, _and he comforts me when I cry._ But she doesn't want to cry in front of Jory or anyone for that matter.  But the tears began to sting at her eyes. She angrily wiped them away.

 

She’d never seen a man cry before, had never seen a man fall apart until Sten did just that. _He’s not a man, only a boy._ A  boy with a mother and sister, a family whom he’ll never see again. Would his remains be sent back at least? If there was anyone to send them back to. The cold has driven him mad, has seeped into his skin and settled upon his bones, turning his flesh into rot. He’d been a thief, hunting in his lord's woods, but only because his father had passed and he had no other means to feed his family.  So, it was either his hands or the Wall. A cripple would be useless, little more than a burden upon his mother and sister and so it was the Wall he chose. And then whilst beyond the Wall, he was attacked. He was scared; so he did the only thing he could do and ran. How unfair the world is.

 

“Yes I know,” she said, voice wavering.

 

“Oh, sweetling…” Father cooed. “I know you mean well, I know you feel sorry for him.  But the law is the law, and an oath is an oath. He broke his oaths, he broke the law, and it is my duty to carry out the law, and execute him.”

 

Joan tried to hold back her tears. “But he’s just a boy father, no older than Robb, no older than _me._  It isn't fair.”  Couldn't they just send him back to the Wall? Surely he’d stay this time… She began to weep then.  Sten’s fate was inevitable it seemed.

 

She doesn't know when her father stood, only that she felt him wrap his arms around her. “You are a good girl, with too good of a heart.”

 

* * *

 

 

Father allows her to go to the execution, she had begged him and he couldn't deny her. One kind face would look upon Sten.  And know him, know his name, and his story and care to remember it. _I should have taken you a long time ago. Would that I did, this issue would not have arisen._ That was her father’s own reasoning. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.  It is what I taught Robb and it is what I’ll teach you._

 

She was going to be the wife of a northern lord after all, and there was no doubt the GreatJon has taken both sons and daughters to executions.

 

On her right, Robb sits next to her, astride his horse, and beside him is Theon, who keeps glancing at her, curious about her being there.  On her left sits Bran trying to look as strong and confident as his brother. This will be his first execution as well. Jory, who seems uneasy about the whole situation is beside Bran.

 

Father takes his greatsword Ice from the scabbard in Theon’s hands. “Do you have any last words, lad?” Sten lifts his head up, and his eyes lock with hers, unwavering. Ned Stark briefly looks at Joan, before gazing down at the boy again.  

 

One would think the boy had said all he needed to say the night before. “I know I broke my oath.  I know I am a deserter. I know I shouldn't have ran, I should have gone back but...I saw what I saw...the blue eyes, they haunt me even in sleep. I couldn't stay there, knowing what I know…”

 

The air stilled, crisp and dry, and the boy had nothing more to say. Resigned with his fate, ready to meet the gods.  She remembered the night before, she’d asked him, if he’d made peace with them. _My gods or yours?_ he responded bitterly.  

 

 _Death is an abstract thing, something far too raw and real for the human to contemplate. The thought is daunting, but the only thing men can resort to in the end is their gods.  Whether you've made peace with them or cursed them, it is them you’ll answer to. Both in life and in death,_ Joan thought woefully.

 

Lord Stark turned to his daughter. “Are you sure you want to be here Joan?  It’s not too late to turn around and leave, Jory will take you back to Winterfell if need be.”

 

The girl shook her head no. She was right where she needed to be. She had dreamed of this, the night before after visiting Sten. Had seen his blood paint the snow red, had seen that snow turn into thick fur and passionate crimson eyes.  The most peaceful dream she’s had in years. There was no other place she wanted to be. Not with Old Nan in the kitchens or in the sewing session, Sansa had invited her to for the first time ever. She’ll regret doing that later, but now it matters little too Joan.

 

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

 

Robb had told her not to close her eyes and she found herself telling Bran the same thing.  This would be their first time witnessing an execution and they were sharing the moment together.  She’d hold his hand to, for her comfort more than his. But she knows he’d object if she tried. He was putting on a face at the moment, attempting to copy the stoic expressions Robb and father currently wore.  She wouldn't ruin that for him.

 

Father raised his greatsword above his head, before bringing it down, taking of the boys head with a single sure stroke. Joan gasped but hadn't looked away. Hadn't dared blink. Sten’s blood painted the snow red.  Her stomach began to roil in response and her palms started to sweat. Sten’s head rolled onto the ground, his eyes more alive then they’d been in his last moments. And Joan couldn't take her eyes off of it until Theon kicked the head away.

 

“Arse,” she muttered under her breath. Bran looked pale and wide-eyed.  She wanted to comfort him but she was just as shocked as he was.

 

“Joan,” Robb called with a smile. How could he be smiling?  But then she remembers he’s a veteran when it comes to executions, desensitized to death.  Her stomach fluttered in fear. Would she someday be the same too? “It’s been so long since we’ve raced.”

 

Joan frowned playfully. “Is that a challenge dear brother of mine?”

 

He let out a hearty chuckle. “Well, I suppose it is-” before he could so much as finish the sentence she pulled the reins of her horse, sending it off into a gallop. “You bloody cheater!” he shouted after her, getting his own horse to move, with Theon following suit.

 

Joan only laughs and laughs, anything to ease her nerves, her fear, her sorrow.

 

The only thing that stopped them was the horrendous sight that was a direwolf. A freak, Theon called it. It smelt of corruption and crawled with maggots, with a cracked antler pierced beneath the jaw, and had five little pups suckling at the breast.

 

Father would have had them killed, a mercy he called it, but Joan stops him.  Five direwolf pups for five of the Stark children, two girls and three boys, she tells him.

 

“You will not have one for yourself?” there is guilt there, in that question. As if he is denying her something yet again.

 

“I’m not a Stark,” she responded, sadly.  And oh, she desperately wanted one, yearned for one.  But what right does she have to take what could possibly belong to one of her siblings? No right, no right at all.

 

Then right before they leave the sight, there is a faint whimper, as faint as wind.  And only she hears. She follows it much to everyone’s confusion and she finds there her heart's desire. A fluff of white fur with crimson red eyes, the same eyes she’d seen in her dream she realizes with much astonishment and fear.  Small and frail, driven away. The runt of the litter, just like her.

 

“That one’s yours Snow!” Theon taunts, but Joan doesn't care.  For once she felt _whole_ if only a little.

 

* * *

 

 

**Jon/Griff**

 

Jon had thought it queer when the magister summoned him to Pentos, but he did as bid.  For all that Illyrio was a glutinous cheesemonger, it was the weight of his plans, his wealth, and allies that kept Jon and his people afloat for so long. He couldn't risk sinking to the bottom again, not when everything was just beginning to fall into place for him and Aegon.  And so he did as bid. He’d expected to be put on some half-hardy mission or take hold of some minimal negotiation with a sellsword company, but the boy...he had not been expecting the boy. For all Jon knew he could be a pretender and a threat or truly Rhaegar’s brother and a threat still. _I have to bring him to my side, to Aegon’s side._  The magister had claimed all would go well, that they could make use of Viserys foolish plans and turn his little brother against him.  Convince the boy that it was Aegon’s insistence that Daeron Targaryen be set free upon hearing of his uncle’s misfortune. _They’ll band together_ , the fat man claimed, lips covered in honey and grease, bits of duck in his yellow beard. _Daeron will support Aegon’s claim, the nephew who set him free opposed to the brother that put him in chains.  Daeron, a full-blooded Targaryen, the son of King Aerys... second of his name, following behind Aegon the sixth of his name, the hidden prince returned from the dead.  No one would dare question his claim or name him a pretender. Except for Viserys, and that is why it must be Daeron instead of him._

 

The magister had wanted Aegon to come along with Jon, but he would not have it, would not risk the boy seeing Aegon and exposing them to his brother Viserys.  Not that the Beggar King could do much damage, but even word can be dangerous. If Viserys ever found out about Aegon, he’d go running his mouth to anyone that would care to hear about the “pretender” and they’d be exposed to the Usurper. It mattered not if the boy thought Aegon set him free, he was not to be trusted, not until it was certain he could be trusted.

 

The master had briefly exposed them besides, putting Illyrio’s name into the matter right in front of the boy.  He doubted the boy was smart enough to catch on, but he still cursed the harpies name all the same.

 

The streets were alight with colored glass lanterns, and the town was alive so late at night.  The shops and brothels usually stayed open until the hour of the wolf, luring in as many customers as possible.  Surrounded by sandstone walls, and filled with towers and domes and long cobbled paths, the Volantene town Selhorys was bigger than most cities in Westeros by far.

 

Jon and Maggot, one of the unsullied traveling with him, left the galley to enter Selhorys and buy a flagon of water and some fruit. Blood oranges, to be exact. That was all the boy had wanted, curiously enough. No milk or meats, bread or small cakes. Just water and blood oranges, if the shops sold any.  And that’d serve just fine for supper, apparently. Jon made a note to bring some meats and milk back as well. The boy needed to keep his strength up and take care to maintain his toned body. It would not do to have a weak sickly boy backing Aegon’s claim.

 

The ship had gone still upon his return.  More like the crew had retired for the night while the slaves stood vigil silently.  He carried a sack of blood oranges, dried goats meat and a canteen of fermented milk. Walking to the boy's cabin door made Jon feel nervous, a part of him hoping the boy isn't in there at all.

 

But he is and opens the door after Jon gathers the courage to knock. The boy looked far cleaner and smelled the part too, in contrast to the state he was in when Jon first met him. The dye they used to hide his identity usually makes the boy’s eye dark and blue instead of the deep violet it truly is, but in candlelight the color is fierce. His looks are soft and yet sharp around the edges, finely proportioned and beautiful. Like Rhaegar, he looked like Rhaegar. They both had Rhaella’s dark eyes instead of Aerys bright lilac, her silvery gold hair instead of Aerys’ bone white, with an aristocratic handsomeness-no, _beauty, an aristocratic beauty._   Not even slavery could rob that from a Targaryen, it seemed, nor could exile.

 

This Daeron Targaryen was no pretender, for he looked too much like Jon’s silver prince, even more so than Aegon.  Though it was to be expected, Daeron was Rhaegar’s brother born of the same seed and womb, while Aegon was both the son of his silver prince and...Elia.  Some of _her_ features must have robbed Aegon of his father’s look.

 

Jon shook the thought away. It was no matter, Aegon would be king, the one to ascend the throne, and Daeron his servant.

 

“Here are the oranges you wanted.  I put some meats in there too, which I expect to be eaten. It’ll do no good to be wasteful on this long journey.”

 

The boy reluctantly nodded.

 

There was always an uncomfortable silence that would sit and linger between them after a few spoken words, making it harder to speak the next time.

 

Jon sighed, briefly taking a look around the room.  It was simple and comfortable, with a cot, a table and chair and a small chest for belongings.

 

“You wanted to talk,” the boy stated matter of factly, sitting the oranges down, before taking a seat on the edge of the cot.

 

“Yes, of course,” Jon sat on the chair at the table, feeling more nervous than usual.  It would be just like talking to Aegon, he was sure, and this boy was younger than Aegon. “I know you've been wondering who I am, why I’m here, why I...saved you.  In truth, it wouldn't be right if I took the credit. It was someone else, someone who- _cared_.  I was just doing as commanded-”

 

“Illyrio, you mean.”

 

Jon started at that.  So the boy had caught on to the master's words. “No-well, yes and no.  Illyrio was the one with the resources to follow through with the plan to free you, but no, it was someone else.”

 

The boy frowned. “Who?”

 

“You’ll find out once we reach Pentos. Where your brother Viserys should be waiting for you.”

 

The boy’s eyes slightly widened, body tensing. “Who is this Illyrio?  Who are you?”

 

Jon remained silent for a long while, eyes locked with the boy who possessed Rhaegar’s sharp eyes.  “My name is...” he thought for a moment. Truth or lie. Seven hells. He’d thought...he’d thought lying to the boy would be easy, but something inside forbids him to.  That old loyalty he had- _has_ for Rhaegar rising to the surface.  Rhaegar’s brother, his silver prince's brother.

 

“Jon.”

 

It was a simple name his mother gave him.  There were thousands, perhaps millions of Jon’s in Westeros.  What were the likes the boy would ever truly know of the one with the name Connington?  And why did it matter?

 

He felt his heart beat a little bit faster at the stranger who wore the silver prince's face. He could almost hear the bells tolling, could feel failure and regret rising to the surface; a forbidden love stirring beneath it all.

 

“My name is Jon, I was a friend of your family, before the Rebellion. Still am, truth be told.  Tis why I’m here, to help your family, to help you.” the boy’s face softened somewhat, strangely enough. “That’s enough for tonight, we’ll talk later.”   

 

Jon quickly left the room. When he made it down the tight corridor, a ways away from the boy's chamber,  he let out a shaky breath.

 

* * *

 

 

The slaves were hard at work beneath the deck, moving the oars in the gentle river waters. The galley moved steadily down the Rhoyne, enough to move about the top deck without falling over.  The boy stood near the rail of the ship, looking over at the land across the water.

 

Jon had tried his best to avoid the boy since that night they talked and was mostly successful in his endeavor until it was time to feed the lad. The boy-Daeron didn't mind at all, for he never left the confinement of his cabin. Just slept, as if he hadn't truly slept in years.  Sad and melancholy. _The boy has led a hard life.  A life of cruelty, exile, and enslavement. And no one to turn to._

 

Perhaps that was what made the boy most compelling, a spirit humbled so early in life.  Jon himself had been a wild youth, ambitious and rebellious, but Daeron was the opposite of that. _Like my Silver Prince._ It was eerie how similar the two just were, or maybe it was Jon’s mind playing a cruel joke on his heart.

 

He found himself making his way toward the boy, before thinking better of it.   It was best to leave Daeron Targaryen in his loneliness. Imposing on him would only cause the boy to hide and shy away.  Rhaegar had been much the same in his attitude, favoring solitude and quiet above all else.

 

After a moons voyage, they were nearing Pentos. It would take a few days to ride through the sands before they actually reached the port city, and hopefully, then, Viserys would have arrived.  He didn't know what Illyrio’s plan was with the eldest brother, save disposing of him. It mattered little to Jon. His only objective was to return to the Shy Maid, to Aegon and Lemore and the rest of the crew.

 

* * *

 

 

Illyrio had a palanquin sent to retrieve them upon arrival, with thick curtains a rich gold and ivory, carried by a flank of bond free servants.  Slaves in all but name. The boy was quiet the whole way there, sometimes gazing out the window to look upon the squared brick towers and marketplaces of Pentos, and the great red temple where the red priest lit their nightly fires.

 

They reached Illyrio’s manse by sunset, a walled estate of grand magnitude.   A brick wall reaching 12 feet high with spike tops that surrounded the perimeter of it, three gates entwined within that.  The place was filled with galleries, arches, and courtyards, and amidst it all, a garden is hidden by a wall of ivy, with cherry trees surrounding a statue of Illyrio himself in his youth.

 

The outside of the manse is just as beautiful as the inside, with pristine white pillars and marble floors, myrish rugs and dining halls the size of a minor lord's great hall.  Everything was evasive and spacious, so much that the sounds of their boots echoed down every corridor. Illyrio had greeted them in the foyer, dressed in his usual golden robe and red jewels, his yellow forked beard soaked in sweat and oil, and now proceeded to take them to his grand solar. _It is a delight to finally meet you, Prince Daeron Targaryen._ The boy had cringed at the title Illyrio bestowed upon him. The lad was better off not knowing the man at all, the snake Illyrio was, but Jon had to remind himself it was for the greater good. For Aegon, and for his Silver Prince.

 

Two guards opened up the large double doors, leading to a relatively simple solar.   The man took his seat behind the wooden desk, covered in plates of dried fruit, cream, nuts, and cheese. The magister poured three cups of wine, beckoning the two guest to sit down. “A fine glass of Arbor Gold, I know you Westerosi enjoy it.”

 

The magisters eyes rarely left the boy, watching as Daeron reluctantly took a small sip before sitting the cup down.  The fat man began to serve the boy many compliments in hopes the child would be foolish enough to eat them up, but Jon has known the boy long enough to know that he was no fool. Eager to drink up lies.

 

“I learned of you through your brother Viserys as of recently, and because of that, your nephew gained knowledge of you as well and sought to help you.”

 

Jon felt his blood freeze over, completely taken off guard.  He’d thought they’d ease into those waters, not dive in. Jon couldn't say anything yet, lest he sought to vilify their image in the boy's eyes.  But he’d have words with the magister later.

 

The boy leaned forward, eyes wide, hopeful. “My brother has a child? Viserys has a child?”

 

The magister frowned in confusion, before smiling.  “I see dear Jon here has yet to have told you.” the fat man chuckled. “ I speak of your brother Rhaegar’s child, Aegon, who is still very much alive despite the tales that have been told.”

 

The solar went deathly still, the air tense and thick, nearly suffocating.

 

“It was because of his insistence that I came to know your...situation in Slavers Bay better and help free you.  Your nephew has a great love for all his family, the precious little he has left, and once he heard of your...fate he sought to set you free.  Of course, he didn't have the means to buy your freedom and so he and his guardian found help, which I was glad to assist in. Like Jon here, I’m a friend of House Targaryen. Jon knew your brother Rhaegar rather well, and has devoted years of his life taking care of his child.”  

 

The boy was speechless for a moment, his violet eyes glistening. Mayhaps- mayhaps Illyrio had been right in this. “Where is he?  Can I meet him?”

 

There was no envy or greed to be found, no contempt or loathing at the thought of another contestor. Gods be good, the boy has just been told his eldest brother has a child, putting him third in line for the iron throne, and has yet to turn red with rage.

 

“No, not yet.  There is much to be done before the two of you meet, and your nephew is still in hiding beside. Despite how eager he is to see you, it’s too dangerous to expose him, with the Usurper and his dogs still in power, but they’ll be a time young one.  A time when the two of you will meet and unite the Seven Kingdoms beneath the dragons rule, and serve the one true king.”

 

“Still, there is much more to talk about, especially in regards to your other brother, Viserys.  He’s not here yet, but he will be soon.”

 

“Does Viserys know of Aegon as well?” Daeron questioned, pensive.

 

It was the magisters turn to be caught off guard.  For a short second, he looked like a fish out of water, gasping for air before a Cheshire smile curled the ends of his lips upward.

 

“Not yet, and I think it’s best to keep this as our secret, yes?  How do you think your brother Viserys would react to Rhaegar’s child?  You look much like your brother, you know, like Rhaegar Targaryen,” Illyrio added on nonchalantly, before growing solemn. “He would be proud of you I’m sure, for all that you have forgone.  Slavery, my child, you survived what most cannot. The Silver Prince would be very proud indeed. Though had he lived you would never have had to worry about such things, as you did with Viserys. Prince Viserys still has plans for you, plans that he has yet to openly disclose to me, but word travels rather fast in the Free Cities.”

 

“Plans? What plans,” the boy was becoming increasingly frustrated.

 

“Plans of marriage, my prince.  A betrothal that he planned right before selling away your freedom all those years ago. And he plans to do so again, to attain a Dothraki army.  The Khal Bharbo wants someone with Valyrian blood for his daughter, and his eyes are set on the Targaryens, or, should I say you, Daeron. The Old Khal’s eyes are set on you.  Viserys plan was to get to you first, but we beat him to it. For that reason alone, you cannot meet Ageon yet. I feel your brother would follow you to the ends of the Earth, even more so now with the wealth he managed to attain in the Free Cities, at your own expense of course.  You have given him much wealth fighting in the Slave Pits, even if it was only the crumbs your former master gave him. To him, you are little more than an item, a jewel, to be bartered, sold and used.”

 

“Illyrio, I think that’s enough,” Jon interjected.  There was a shadow in the boy's eyes, stirrings of turmoil and anguish that could easily light a fuse; could easily become rage and hatred. That’s what the magister intended mayhaps.

 

Illyrio lifted his brow. “The boy deserves to know the truth, needs to know what to expect when his brother arrives.” his voice was urgent. Shut up, his eyes seemed to say.  The Magister wants Daeron to feel rage and hatred, wants him to yearn to be at Aegon’s side instead of Viserys. Illyrio simply wants betrayal, to have the Targaryen brothers off each other in the event that Daeron becomes a foe instead of a friend to Aegon. The old divide and conquer tactic.

 

Jon nodded in recognition, feeling guilty all the while.

 

“When will he be here?” Daeron asked, weary.

 

“I told you. Soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

The days passed on drearily, with the anticipated, and dreaded arrival of Viserys Targaryen.  The boy sat silently at each meal and spent hours looking out his window sill with a cloud of melancholy.

 

His hair had returned to its natural silver gold in the wait, one of the few heirlooms the Targaryens had left. It only enhanced Daeron’s beauty in Jon’s eyes, so much that he’d rather not see it dyed again. Rhaegar brought to life again, as equally beautiful and talented and sad.

 

The boy only ever left his room to spare in the yard with Illyrio’s Unsullied, and sometimes Jon himself joined in the morning bouts. If he looked on long enough, let his mind drift away, he could see Rhaegar instead of the boy instead, older and refined. For all his beauty, Daeron was ways away from that, still touched by the roughness of youth, the unease of growing into manhood.  His voice still cracked when he spoke, with stubble barely growing onto his smooth face. Still, Jon could pretend, if only a little, that this was the man he had grown to love in his youth. Such thoughts were dangerous.

 

Nevertheless, Jon found himself racing to the yard every day, feet quick and steady, ready to cross swords with the man-child.  It was the way that he moved that truly captured the red-haired lord’s attention, swift and fluid in every motion, sharp and precise, a mesmerizing dance. He’d only ever seen that type of skill with the Sword of the Morning and his Silver Prince.

 

Aegon would be fortunate to have this boy on his side.  A worthy kingsguard, the lord commander even. The Dragon Knight come again. When was the last time he’d felt this way? That intense feeling of butterflies and a subtle warmth that crept up on you like a thief in the night. He no longer got that feeling when he thought of Rhaegar, for the man was gone, and a mind-numbing pain and ache took its place. Jon liked it not, what he felt now in this moment as his fist once again raised to knock on Daeron Targaryen’s door.

 

Word had reached the manse that Viserys was only a few miles away, and would arrive at noon.

 

There was uncertainty of how the day would come to end or what it would bring, nothing good though. The boy must be more anxious than all of them.  He was going to see the man who sold him away after all, who bartered away him like goods and sought to do so again. His own brother no less.

 

Jon knocked, not at all surprised when the door refused to open. It would be rude to barge in and intrude on the boy’s privacy but there was no time to lull about. No, Jon would wait a little longer.  He knocked again.

 

“Your brother nears. Are you not yet presentable?” The silence was his only response. Jon sighed. “The least you can do is respond with a no.”

 

A few beats passed. “Come in.”

Jon took the invitation, walking into the room. As expected, it was luxurious and large.  The bedding was a deep royal red, the curtains an endless black that starkly contrasts against the whitewashed walls with expensive paintings of pretty meadows and maidens walking along the banks of a nameless river. And then there was him, Daeron Targaryen, standing on the balcony connected to his chamber, idly staring at the river below him. He was a black silhouette traced with red and gold, the rich silks offered up to him as gifts from Illyrio.

 

He spared Jon a glance, just as the sun caught Daeron’s left eye and a wisp of his hair, making them glow. Gods help me, Jon pleaded internally. A foolish thing that.  The gods were bent on torturing Jon Connintin for his every failure, and the perversions that the Seven greatly condemned. It wasn't natural for a man to love a man, how Jon had loved Rhaegar, nor was it natural to lust.

 

“I waited for him you know,” Daeron spoke suddenly, snatching Jon from his reverie. “As the days turned to weeks, weeks turned to moons, moons turned to years. I waited and he never came.  I’ve waited for this day for years and now, I dread the very thought. I feel...I feel I may crumble at any moment. I’m scared to think what will happen when I have to face him. He’s my brother after all, and for so long I thought he was the only one I had.”

 

The revelation surprised Jon, to say the least, and roused a fear that had somewhat calmed.“You have Aegon now.”

 

“And yet I cannot even meet him.”

 

“Because of Viserys.”

 

Daeron fully turned around then. “Viserys is still my brother, he’s still my blood.” he spat, fist clenched.

 

Jon crossed his arms. “But does he see you that way? Time has a funny way of changing people, Daeron, he’d been a cruel man when he sold you away.  Think of how corrupted he must be now.”

 

“Why are you people so bent on me hating my brother?”

 

Jon’s stomach twisted. “We’re not bent on anything.  There is no conspiracy here, I only tell you the truth.”

 

Daeron weakened at that, turning his back to Jon, gaze returning to the river. Jon made his way to the boy's side and looked over with him.  Children laughed and played in the waters, mothers humoring them or snapping at them to move along. The boy’s gaze was longing.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jon surprised himself with the sudden apology. “I did not mean to upset you. It’s unfair what your brother did to you, and yet I can't fault you in still loving him.”  

 

“He’s the only family I’ve ever known.”

 

“...yes, of course,” Jon muttered tiredly. He thought for a moment, contemplated on his next words, wondering if he’d chosen them right. “Your brother Rhaegar felt the same about your father.”

 

Daeron frowned. “Why would he feel the same way about my father?” the boy was truly confused and so was Jon for a moment. Did he not know about his own father? Then again, was it strange to assume that Viserys didn't tell the boy about the Mad King?

 

Before Jon could so much as say another word a slave girl entered the room. “My lord, my prince, Magister Illyrio has requested your presence in the foyer. He says that _His Grace_ Viserys has arrived.”

 

And here the supposed king was. Viserys Targaryen had arrived in a great carriage, flanked by a handful of Unsullied, and accompanied with two pretty slave girls. The only slaves he could afford most like. The young man had a pair of feverish lilac eyes, the same eyes as his father, with bone white hair and a young gaunt face.  All the jewels and the elaborate designs on his tunic seemed to swallow him whole. Daeron was obviously the better of the two, both in looks and mannerism. Maybe that’s why the mad lad sold his brother away, fear and jealousy of a better man challenging his right to the throne. Jon had no doubt he’d do the same to Aegon or worse if given the chance.

 

Viserys smiled a sickly smile as he beheld his brothers paled face and watery eyes. Daeron seemed to freeze, like a doe caught in a hunters view. The boy swallowed nervously as he looked back at his brother, meeting the elder's eyes.

 

“Brother!” Viserys spoke with great enthuse. “It has been so long.” he approached Daeron with easy strides, as Jon and Illyrio watched on warily.

 

They were playing with fire right now, putting those two together in the same room, both men who have every reason to stab the other in the back.  Jon has no doubt Illyrio would provide the daggers though.

 

Viserys envelops a speechless Daeron into an embrace.  The boy doesn't return the hug, and his arms hang limply at his sides.  He’s to shocked to respond to anything. Viserys almost looks hurt, almost, but it quickly fades away into a cutting smile.  His ringed fingers have a firm hold on Daeron’s shoulders.

 

“Oh, you wound me, brother, with your lack of response. At the very least tell me you're happy to see me.  It’s of no matter though.” he turns to the magister, letting go of his little brother. “Illyrio, I believe you and I have some business to discuss.”

 

The magister grins. “We all do, Your Grace.”

 

* * *

 

 

They sit in a great hall, with a long trestle table in the center.  Only three men are seated and yet trays of food fill every corner of the wooden surface. The collaboration of smells that drift from every dish is almost nauseating. Almost as nauseating as Viserys.

 

“You are to be married to Khal Bharbo’s daughter. She and her father may be barbarians, but she’s a princess in all but name, and her father can give me an army to take back our land.  All you need do is wed and bed her, so she can pop out a welp for some prophecy these savages are keen on believing in.” Viserys gave pale-faced Daeron a cruel grin. “That’s all you need to do dear brother, for me. That’s all I ask of you. Illyrio, when will the khal be here?”

 

“I’ve contacted the Khal sometime ago, and he responded thusly. We are old friends, somewhat. Or maybe trading partners is the right words.  He rides with his Khalasar, and the Dothraki are known for traveling fast Your Grace. Dare I say, he’ll arrive in Pentos in two moons time, at the most. We’ll host him in my own halls, with many other great men in attendance, Your Grace.”

 

“Good!” Viserys responded cheerfully, then looked back at Daeron. He studied his brother, before grimacing. “He needs to look more like a prince of the blood, a true Targaryen. This Khal Bharbo would have nothing less.”

 

It was hard for Jon to digest the conversation, left wondering if Illyrio would truly let this come to pass. Two moons at the most and the boy would be gone, swept up by the Dothraki Sea.  There’s no way he could possibly survive the Dothraki, the slave pits are one the thing but the horselords are an entirely different other. There were so many ways this could go wrong. And whose to say the Dothraki would accept him or respect him?  The Dothraki despise foreigners amongst them, most being slaves or women, just as much as they despise weakness. Whose to say some fickle horselord won't try to challenge him or that he won't die in any raids or battles against other invading khalasars?  What if he doesn't meet the Khals standards or manage to give the man what he wants? And what does the Khal want? He could easily buy a Lyseni slave for his daughter and it wouldn't be much different. But the Khal wants a prince, a Valyrian prince for his daughter.  A fathers love or a fathers pride perhaps.

 

Jon felt a familiar bitterness, one that’d never truly faded away.  None of Rhaegars suitors had been worthy of him, not Cersei or Elia or any of the hundreds of others.  He swallowed it down. It was no matter. He had to remind himself that Daeron wasn't Rhaegar, and he was as disposable as Viserys in Illyrio’s eyes, and so Jon shouldn't grow so attached. He would be gone soon, and so would Jon when Illyrio finally decides to send him back to Aegon’s side, where he belongs.

 

“In return for wedding the khal’s daughter, you’ll be raised as a ko. Somewhat of a lieutenant to command a subdivision of the khalasar, known as the khas. And if you prove yourself worthy, you’ll be raised as a bloodrider. Only a khal can ask a man to become a bloodrider.” Illyrio said.  He raised a cup of one. “May you succeed in that endeavor, young prince, for it will be a hard task to achieve.”

 

* * *

 

 

He searches for Daeron when the sun finally settles and the sky grows dark, with only the torches and firepits for light. The boy needs someone to talk to, to fully digest and comprehend everything he was soon to be forced into.

 

Eventually, Jon does find him in the large estate, in the garden.  But he isn't alone. Viserys is there with him, and they share an embrace that Daeron had been too in shock to melt into hours before. It’s almost brotherly and affectionate if Viserys could actually be either of those things.  It leaves Jon stunned, the sudden warmth between the two. He had thought after earlier, after everything Daeron had learned he’d know better than to trust his snake of a brother. Perhaps Jon had been wrong. The boy was a fool.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon hated everything at the moment.  The warmth that dominated the manse from all the bodies that now filled it, the smells and colliding perfumes, the Dothraki and their uncomfortable presence, and that girl. The only woman in attendance, a brown dull thing dressed in ebony silk, copper bracelets on her wrist.  It was meant to attract the boy’s attention and much to Jon’s disappointment it did. He drowned his sorrows with wine. It will be over soon Jon, he told himself, it will be over soon and you’ll never have to see the likes of the boy and his heathen wife again.

 

A fathers love or a fathers pride that makes this Khal Bharbo think his daughter deserves nothing less than a Targaryen prince. Everyone seems content with this mummers farce, a grand spectacle for all of Essos to behold. There would be no gains from this, not how Viserys may think.  Illyrio was joyfully leading the faulty king astray, and Jon was fine with that, but must he lead Daeron as well? Daeron who could become an asset to Aegon and his cause? So much potential left to waste away in the Dothraki Sea. A necessary means to an end my lord, Illyrio had told him before the feast. Perhaps, if the boy manages to make it out at the end of all of this, then perhaps he can join Aegon’s cause, though not likely.

 

Jon accepted this with bitter resolve and watched the feast carry on as Daeron was forced to court the Dothraki girl. The two never spoke, barely even looked at each other. Theirs would be a cold marriage, and perhaps it’s wrong for Jon to feel elated at their future misery but he does.

 

At the corner of his eye, he sees Viserys stride toward Ser Jorah Mormont, a northern knight who’d been exiled by one of the Usurpers dogs for selling poachers caught on his land, according to Illyrio. Just the sight of the man makes Jon grimace.  Why is he even here? What business does he have with the Targaryens? House Mormont is known for their loyalty to the Stark’s, who owe their loyalty to the Usurper, but maybe Lord Eddard calling for the man's head has convinced the craven fool to switch sides. Jon has managed to avoid the man thus far, though he hardly believes the man would be able to recognize his face.  Still, one could never be too cautious.

 

“Griff!” Illyrio calls, resting a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He’d almost forgotten the name he hid under. “We must talk, walk with me.” Jon walked.

 

When they were a ways away from listening ears Illyrio began to speak. “You’ve been staring at the Targaryen boy all night, people were starting to notice.” the magister smiled a knowing smile, and Jon’s heart leaped.

 

Footsteps begin to race after them, Daeron himself, with a nervous look in his violet eyes.

 

“Magister Illyrio,” he caught up with them. “I cannot do this.  I cannot marry that girl, she’s barely a woman grown.”

 

The Magister frowned. “Is she not beautiful my prince?” The boy swallowed, pensive.

 

“No, she is. She’s very beautiful.”

 

“Then what does it matter that she’s young. I think even Jon might agree with such an assessment!” Illyrio responded, grinning. Jon felt his blood run cold. “You must marry her Daeron Stormborn unless you wish to upset her father.  Khal Bharbo would not take such rejection lightly, not after making a show of it to all that know him.”

 

“I didn't ask for this!” the boy shouted, enraged.

 

“No, you didn't,” Illyrio spoke mournfully. “But you're brother did.”

 

The boy grows still, face blank. He looked ready to run the magister through with his sword and Jon couldn't say that’d he would try to stop him if he did so.

“This marriage is doomed to fail. What am I supposed to do?”

 

“Watch your brother, Prince Daeron, for Aegon’s sake,” Jon answered before Illyrio could speak again. “And watch him closely.  Think of the kind of man he’d be if he ever came to rule. He would treat his subjects how he’s treated you. Common folk and nobles alike would rise up against him,” _how they did your father.  Your father who had been cruel._ He left that part out.

 

Daeron stared at Jon, then nodded, never truly voicing his agreement before walking away. Jon has just told him to spy on his brother for Aegon.  There were so many ways this could go wrong.

 

“And you do the same _Griff,”_ Illyrio spoke after a short while, his gaze dark. “Watch both of them. When the Khalasar finally leaves for Vaes Dothrak, you leave with them.”

 

Jon shook the man's hand off of his shoulder. Had Illyrio gone mad? “But what of Aegon?” he whispered hushedly.

 

“What of him? You worry to much old friend, he’ll be fine without you, if only for a little while. And you’ll have much company with Ser Jorah. I’m sure you two have much in common, but Daeron is more likely to trust you more than anyone else. And even a blind man could see the affections you have for this boy, none of them being fatherly.”

 

Just as the night had started it ended.

 

* * *

 

 

**Daeron**

 

Daeron’s life feels more like a fever dream than reality. Because this is his life, out of all the life’s he could have been born into. An exiled prince from a disgraced family that was once great, forced into slavery by his own brother, with a nephew hidden in plain sight according to two strange men whom he knows little to nothing about. And now he was going to marry a Dothraki princess in hopes of getting his brother an army. _So we can go home,_ Viserys said. The home Daeron had never known, the home he yearns to return to, not as a prince, heir or king, but a simple man leading a simple life.

 

 _I could have been a sailors son,_ he thinks, _or the son of a minor lord, maybe even a farmers son. Instead, the gods, if there are any, decide to make me this. What a life to live._

 

He stares at his reflection in the mirror. He wears a black buttoned-down tunic, with a red dragon embroidered onto the right of his chest, as red as fresh blood.  There are golden flames on the cuffs of his sleeves, and the collar rest just above his nape. He wore a ring on his right hand that had once belonged to his mother according to Viserys. A small thing made of gold and steel. An early wedding gift befitting a prince. Everything he currently wore was from his brother's wardrobe, almost as if Viserys sought to mark him, to claim Daeron once again.

 

For two moons they dined and wined at Illyrio’s table, slept beneath his roof, and accepted his gifts of clothes and jewels and so many promises that Daeron hardly believed.  It was all a ploy, a lie, a veil to cover his brother's eyes. But Viserys bought into them, ate up the lies eagerly to feed his dreams. Viserys was still cruel and spiteful, heart full of vengeance.  But he had his moments, when he wanted to comfort, when he wanted to be warm, be a brother. The moments were brief, like a candle flame in a sharp wind, easily blown out. Maybe Daeron being a man grown had something to do with it, and Viserys was only testing how far he could go.  How cruel he could be, and how much kindness could make up for it, like when they were children. Maybe things haven't changed at all, for he still flinches and cowers and keeps his mouth shut in hopes he doesn't rouse his brother's anger. Daeron was a seasoned gladiator and a survivor of many fighting pits, but when it came to Viserys he was just a little boy again.  It was hard to shake off when Viserys had been his only paternal figure in youth. The one who protected him and clothed him and fed him, that was Viserys. Not his masters or teachers, not Zegh or Mare, Illyrio, Jon, or this Aegon that he is just now hearing of. Perhaps that was unfair, but after all these years Viserys still had a grip on his mind. It was easy to forgive him and overlook his wrongs, and place him above everyone else.  Because who else does Daeron really have in this world if not his brother, his blood?

 

When he woke this morning Daeron had thought for a moment, that perhaps he was still in Slavers Bay, on his way to the Black Pits.  That this was only just a cruel vivid dream. The life that he’d known, the life he’d grown so adapted to, the people he’d fought and loved and killed, gone. Now he was here, with strangers, reunited with his brother alas.   It all filled him with a sense of forlorn. Mare is dead, and Vaela is as good as dead. This didn't seem quite right, or fair, that he was still alive. Completely unbothered in a manse, soon to be married to a princess. Of course, he was waiting for the other foot to fall, for everything to completely sour. It always did.

 

They say Rhaegar’s child lives. Somewhere out there, alone and afraid, and without family.  If he could see Aegon now he’d tell him how fortunate he was, as to not have known him or Viserys.  For Viserys was cruel and broken and terrible, and Daeron was growing to be much the same. While Viserys was a slaver, Daeron could easily be branded a murderer.   _I've killed so many just to survive,_ he thought. _And I will live with that for the rest of my life._

 

No amount of guilt could absolve his deeds nor wash the blood clean from his hands. The masters had named him a god in all but name, the Stormborn, always undefeated. Magister abhorred the masters of Slavers Bay as if condemning them would help Daeron ignore the slaves that filled his manse or the Unsullied that guarded his home.  Because somehow what they were doing in Slavers Bay was _far_ worse than the slavery in Pentos.  At least they value the life of their slaves, even the old ones, _right?_

 

Would marrying be so bad? Daeron’s stomach flipped. He hears the whispers from the servants and slaves, of how pretty and young the girl is, for a Dothraki, they always add on.  As if to say the women from these people aren't always so pleasant, as if to say he should be grateful. He knows little of the Dothraki save Caggo and the ones forced into the fighting pits alongside him. He knows that the men are blunt and wild and ruthless, but he knows little about the women.  Beautiful and young, they say, and all he thinks about is Vaela and that scared Lyseni girl and hates himself a little more. For he was going to have a part in _it_ again, whatever force it was that disfavored these poor girls so much.

 

_Women, are slaves too you know? We are slaves, the glamorized kind, with many titles.  Daughter, sister, wife, mother. So many roles to play, like puppets on a string, controlled by the man who owns us all. Do you know Daeron? Do you know that?_

 

But Daeron doesn't want to be a master, doesn't want to control or manipulate or use someone as a means to an end.  He doesn't want to be that type of man. In fact, he doesn't even want to think about his bride to be despite the fact that she’s only hours away, to be presented like a broodmare, and he the mount. A mount and a mare, that’s what Viserys called him, called them.  The thought disgusted him. He felt anxious, his lips and throat consistently growing dry just at the thought of this anonymous woman-no, girl. He had to keep reminding himself that this was just a girl. Not a viper or a wolf just a girl.

 

He looked down at his hands.  They were shaking. He closed them, trying to still the trembling.  He went to the balcony to overlook the bay. If he looked and listened hard enough, to the red priest singing their hymns as they light their nightly fires and children running about beyond the walls of Illyrios estate, he could pretend he was there with them. Just a child, with no thoughts of marriage or betrayals, no thoughts of what once was or what could have been or what will soon be.

 

There was more that came with this girl though, prophecies and conspiracies on both ends of the betrothal, and plans for a child to solidify the marriage.  A child, a child. Daeron thinks he might faint.

 

But before he could do much of anything Jon came to retrieve him. “The Khal is only mere minutes away.  I think it would be wise if you were there to greet him.”

 

* * *

 

 

The magisters hall flowed with food aplenty.  The servants served trays of cheese, grapes, and sweetmeats, while the tables were covered with suckled pigs, sweetened ducks, lamb chops with mint jelly, large cakes, and kidney pies and other nice things to feast on. The air was filled with spices, cinnamon and mint and lemon and everything _sweet_ and _nice._

 

The walls were covered with paintings that had not been there before, paintings of Aegon’s Conquest and Balerion the Black Dread, the Field of Fire, the Dance of Dragons, the Doom of Valyria.  There was even one of Daeron the Young Dragon which Illyrio notedly pointed out for him. The magister had an old mousy slave woman place a plain silver circlet upon his head after gifting him with a bastard sword to carry on his person.  

 

“Let them know that you are a prince,” he chimed. “Worry not, there will be many more gifts my prince.”  God how he hated that name. Never in his life had he felt like one.

 

The walls were also covered in crimson and black drapes, the colors of his house. The manse screamed Targaryen, as many guests filtered inside.  So many people. The horselords were the first to come in. Tall burly men, with copper skin and mustachios bound in metal rings, long black oiled braids woven with bells that chimed as they moved.  Then there were sellswords and red priest, men from the Summer Isles, men from Ibben, Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh. Merchants and magisters and princes and lords.

 

And among the sea of people, is her.  Easily overlooked when around her people, they seemed to crowd around her. But by herself, she was easy to make out. The only woman, the only girl, he realizes with fear. She looks as smooth as marble, lithe and tall for a girl of thirteen; young and beautiful just like everyone claimed. She smiles lightly as if she were trained to do so, garbed in light ebony silk, nearly transparent with a v-line that rest between the valley of her breast. He could see the teasing mounds of flesh, like liquid gold or a shiny copper penny. Though what fascinated him most was her hair, as dark as midnight, and the way it settled on the curve of her back-her exposed back when it was pushed aside. Her cheekbones were high, lips full and painted pink in contrast to her dusky skin, and her eyes slanted dark pools. Even in the light of her beauty, her face screamed youth and uncertainty and fear. She froze, goose flesh covering her bare arms, then turned her head to face the culprit who’d caused such a reaction. She caught him staring much to his shame, then turned her head away, faster than wind.  Her hands played with the fabric of her dress until one man shot her a look to stop fidgeting. A tall man, taller than the tallest man in the room.

 

Illyrio finds Daeron after greeting some of his guests and follows his line of sight. “Ah, I see the girl has finally caught your eye. She’s not of my taste, but she’s a beauty all the same. Would you like to meet your bride to be?” Daeron doesn't know how to respond to that and settles on saying nothing at all after realizing his response doesn't really matter. “Wait here, I’ll go bring her to you. It’s about time you meet your future khal as well.”

 

Viserys creeps up from behind after, gripping his shoulder before leaning down into his ear. “That’s Khal Bharbo,” _I know that already,_ he wishes to say with much annoyance but keeps his mouth shut. “Do you see how long his braid is? Or how long his bloodriders braids are?” Khal Bharbo’s braid rested on his thighs, and the others were just as long if not longer. “When the Dothraki are defeated in battle they cut off their braids so that the world may know their shame. Khal Bharbo has never been defeated and neither has his men.  You’ll be one of them, Danny, you’ll ride among them and speak their savage language, so they’ll believe that you're one of them. You’ll fill the little wench up with your seed, and they’ll praise the ground in which you walk when it quickens. But keep in mind dear brother, that these are not our people. That they are only a means to an end, to go home, and to take back my throne. You serve me, and only me, you are my slave, my servant to command.  Do you hear that? You are a servant, no matter how high they raise you, no matter how much they praise you, you are beneath me. And when the time comes, you’ll be riding under my banner, dear brother. If an opportunity arises to get rid of the khal and get the Khalasar sooner, don’t hesitate to take it.” Viserys finished darkly, before letting Daeron go. He felt empty inside.

 

Illyrio approached them, with the khal and princess in tow. Viserys eyed them intently, gripping the handle of his sword, which Daeron was sure he’s never used.

 

The khals eyes swept over him and Viserys coldly, before nodding to his daughter. She looked at the khal, almost pleadingly before stepping toward the two Valyrians. Viserys had always been tall, and so had Daeron, and thus they both loomed over her much how the khal loomed over them. She first looked at Viserys who regarded her coolly, then flickered to Daeron who only minutes before had been dissecting her.

 

Illyrio introduced them, King Viserys third of his name, and his princely brother Daeron Stormborn. Then, Khal Bharbo the Old Stallion and his daughter Drogi.

 

He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.

 

The feast dragged on late into the night, long after the khal along with his daughter and his bloodriders left.  In the aftermath, the Unsullied had many leftovers to feed on.

 

Drogi, what an odd name for a girl. It seemed unfinished, incomplete and uncertain.  Like it didn't quite fit her. The way she moved and carried herself with great unease. Afraid to bring her father displeasure. She’d worn copper bracelets and brown jewels on her ears, the finest perfume…

 

Khal Bharbo is not like any other khal, Illyrio says, he has seen many sights, many peoples and cultures, more than a common khal, and has decided he wants them all for his daughter, and the son as a result of the union between her and Daeron.

 

All men want to be great, all men want a legacy and Khal Bharbo is no different.  They say he has slaves from every corner of Essos and even some beyond that, they say he is the richest khal to have ever lived, that he owns a palace in Vaes Dothrak made of marble and silver.  His goal is to be different, to be better. His daughter wasn't exempt from his grand schemes it seemed. For she was not like every other khals daughter, cast aside or given away to a bloodrider.  She wore gowns of silk and cotton instead of horsekin and horsehair, necklaces of gold and silver instead of withered beads made of wood and seeds. She was taught many languages from her father's slaves, and it is said she even knows a bit of common tongue, that she may know how to read and write, learned in the womanly arts of song and poetry like a proper mistress or lady.  A different breed of women among her people. _Civilized,_ Illyrio calls her.

 

Needleless to say Illyrio had been impressed and claimed Daeron should be too. “Most Dothraki women are loud, promiscuous and wild, like _animals.”_

 

Viserys only scoffed _._ “You say that as if it were an achievement to behave like a civilized being.  The tales of this uppity savage girl do not amuse me.” he only says this once he’s far away from the khal and his daughter, in fear that she might understand him and translate to Khal Bharbo.

 

When the night ends his mind is heavy with betrayals that have happened and have yet to happen.

 

* * *

 

All forty thousand of Khal Bharbo’s khalasar resided beyond the walls of Pentos in vast herds of grass palaces, beneath the bare sky.  It is a belief among the Dothraki people that all things of importance in a man's life must be done beneath the sky.

 

The day had finally come, abruptly so.  Daeron sat at the very top of an earthen ramp in the smoldering heat. Beside Daeron sat his bride to be, the khal’s _ki_   _(daughter)_ or _nayat (girl)_ as still as a bronze statue, garbed in the traditional dress of the Dothraki: a painted vest, a pair of sandals, and a skirt that reached the knees fastened with a belt.  Her stomach was supple, toned and most of all exposed. Above him were the Old Stallion and one of his young wives, one that he happens to favor most at the moment. She had yet to give him a child, a son, and it is said that the khal is incapable of having one.  Daeron would be the son the man never had, the key to a prophecy, and the prize for his daughter, so that she may become a real princess. A Targaryen princess in name.

 

Below them sat Viserys, dressed in black and red silks, insulted at the mere prospect of being placed beneath Daeron.  He grumbled and huffed but never voiced his complaints to the khal who’d seated them thusly. Illyrio and Jon sat with Viserys as well, along with Ser Jorah Mormont, the exiled knight who admittedly swore his sword to Viserys cause.  There were others too, some of Khal Bharbo’s bloodriders and a few merchants from Pentos who brought gifts to honor the khal.

 

Daeron had learned as much as he could from Illyrio in such short given time. Certain words to use and how to pronounce them, the strange customs the Dothraki were prone to and other things that’d be of use to him later.  Yet none was enough to engage in conversation with Drogi. She was as sturdy and unmoved as a mountain on the outside, but he could see the pain in her well-practiced smile and the trepidation in her eyes. The future must be just as uncertain for her as it was for him. She barely spared him a glance, which he was grateful for.  He fears he wouldn't be able to meet her gaze, knowing what he knows will soon come. Perhaps he can prevent it, he doesn't have to bed her, and none will really know.

 

The Dothraki were a strange people, and so Danny was frightened into a still statue, watching the comings and goings in dreaded finality.  Men and women alike wore painted vest over a bare chest, with horsehair leggings and skirts fastened by medallion belts with sandals laced up to their knees.  The day was filled with endless fighting, drinking, and dancing, their oil and sweat-drenched bodies illuminated by the fire pits. Their bodies a motion of fervent passion and wild movement, so unlike anything he has ever seen before.  The drummer's beat on the drums loudly, and the sound rebates through the field, as loud as a stampede of horses, and the dancers' bodies move in sync. It smells of horseflesh, and they served it in abundance with sweet grass stew and blood pies that stain the teeth red. The wine passed around freely and the men fell deep into their cups as they took any women that happened to catch their eye.  Drogi watched with unsettled eyes, and despite the fear, she might have felt she couldn't tear her gaze away from the sight of a man roughly taking a woman how a hound takes a bitch. And take it the woman does without protest, disgraced and used in front of all the Khalasar until the culprit grows tired of her. This has been the only life Drogi has known, Daeron thought and he does the unthinkable when he sees her tremble. He held her hand, a small copper thing, soft and warm. She tensed under his touch but didn't shy away.

 

She looked at him, surprised, the first she’d looked at him since the wedding began. Had he made a wrong move? But then, she smiled. It’s small and uncertain, but the truest one he’s seen from her yet.

 

When their gaze returned to the field it was to the sight of a man’s entrails spilling into the dust and another taking a slave girl for all to see. Illyrio looked up at him. “A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair, my prince!”

 

Viserys grimaced, appalled by everything he saw. “I wished they’d get on with it already,” he grumbled, and as if on cue the Khal called for the gifts to be presented.

The magisters and cheesemongers gift Drogi with Myrish lace and silk from Lys, fine wines and beautiful jewelry made from beads and pearls, oils and perfumes, baskets of snakes and the things she didn't want were given to Daeron. Dragon bone daggers, crossbows, and arachs. One arach, in particular, is given directly to him, one with a smoky blade. An arach made of Valyrian steel.  Caggo’s arach, but no Caggo in sight.

 

“They claim to have won it from raiding slavers near Meereen,” Illyrio explained. “A very fine gift my prince.”

 

Daeron couldn't believe it, but here it was, in his hands.  He sat the monstrous thing aside.

 

Then another approaches with a stack of books, Ser Jorah Mormont.  The man bowed. “Histories and songs from the Seven Kingdoms written in the Common Tongue, Your Grace,” the man spoke. “It isn't much but it’s all a poor exiled knight can afford.”  He places the books with the rest of the gifts.

 

Then came Illyrio’s gift.  It took the strength of four slave men to carry the great cedar chest bound in bronze, placed at Daeron’s feet. When he opened it he found three huge eggs seated upon the finest velvets and damasks Pentos had to offer.  He nearly gasped in shock. They were beautiful, stunningly so, and looked to be encrusted with gold and jewels. Symmetrically patterned in deep vibrant colors, each one different from the other beside it. It looked to be made of light material, like porcelain or blown glass but when he picked one up it felt much more like a solid stone than anything else. Then he turned the egg in his hands, a black one as dark as obsidian, specked with swirls of scarlet, gleaming like polished armor in the sunlight. One was green, speckled with bronze and another as white as cream and streaked with gold.  Daeron had never felt so much wonder.

 

“What are they?’ he asked.

 

“Dragon eggs from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai,” said Illyrio. “The eons have turned them to stone yet still they burn bright with beauty.”

 

Khal Bharbo’s gift is presented soon after. Drogi and Daeron rose to receive a horse, a great white stallion, powerful and proud.  Silver for the silver of your hair, Illyrio claimed. Daeron rubbed the horse's snout, then it’s hair. Khal Bharbo spoke and Illyrio translated.

 

“It would honor the khal if you rode it with your wife,” Illyrio said. “It is time to consummate the marriage.”

 

Daeron nodded, feeling dreadful. He’d been told where to go, near a desolate grass area, beneath the stars. He looked at Drogi, who looked as afraid as he felt and helped her up onto the stallion, then mounted the beast himself.  The sea of people parted, making way for the bride and groom. The girl wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. He held on tightly to the reins and then he rode, rode like the wind. And for the first time, in a very long time, he felt...free.  The hoots and hollers of the Dothraki faded as they went further and further away.

 

* * *

 

 

The cliff is covered in tall grass that reaches the waist. His hair has become windswept from the strong breeze and he shivers from the cold.  Drogi is no better, and he could barely look at her. He speaks to her in low Valyrian, in hopes that the rumors of her knowing the tongue are true, and he tells her they do not have to lie together if she does not wish to. But, she frantically shakes her head no.

 _“Please, we must. He’ll know if we don’t. He’ll have my slaves check me and they will tell him, and he’ll know,_ ” she responded, fearful. Daeron swallowed.  

 

The girl was Vaela and the Lyseni slave in one single moment, the worst of both cases. She stepped toward him, undoing her skirt, then her vest and sandals.  He watched as the fabric dropped to her feet. Everything was free and exposed, and he couldn't stop himself from looking, from wanting. He had never known the pleasures of the flesh. Her curves were subtle but there, and her brown nipples were as dark as ebony, stomach flat and smooth, and further down between her legs was hair as dark as her eyes. Daeron had never known a woman’s body, not truly.

 

He could feel the heat he’d felt all that time ago, a warmth that swelled in his abdomen. The girl's body pressed against his, and he didn't object, didn't push away.  She grabbed his hand, and placed it at her lips, down there...between her thighs.

 

“Yes,” she spoke in the Common Tongue this time, and the fear was gone.  Perhaps seeing him nervous gave her confidence. “Yes,” she repeated herself.

 

“Is that the only word of Common Tongue that you know?” he could really care less.  Daeron had never felt a warmth like the warmth he felt now, soft and hot and wet. She pleasured herself on his fingers, moaning and whimpering. _Lust on my fingers._ The most enticing thing he’d ever seen.  A woman in pleasure.

 

“Yes,” she moaned again.

 

Somehow, they ended up on the grass, clothing discarded, including his own. He kissed her lips, her neck, and breast. And then she pushed him on his back, hands braced on his chest and _took him._ Daeron had been completely at her mercy then. Their tumble was clumsy and awkward at first, but then it became blissfully sensual, and they had no longer felt the cold.  Not when wrapped up in each other.

 

Heaven had been in her arms, in her hands, in that warm, moist place between her thighs that gripped around his cock with urgency. _Yes, heaven,_ he’d thought and moaned as he came.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know the ending of the chapter was awkward but it’s bound to be when you're writing about two underage teens “getting it on.”. I’m not even going to put on a front and pretend that I’m good at smut either way because...well...I’m not. Like at all. But I’ll try I promise. 
> 
> Daeron is 14-15. Joan is 16 (and the Stark children are also show canon age). Drogi is 13. And yes, I know...Drogi. I kid you not I could not find a better name, but I’ll work with what I got. I tried to get Joan’s and Daeron’s magical creatures in the same chapter, you know, those good ole parallels. Also fun fact: According to TV Tropes the white stallion represents leadership and seniority, as well as the sun, fertility, and divinity. As such, the characters who often ride these horses are the specific “Chosen One”.
> 
> Let me know if there are any inconsistencies of grammar mistakes. Hope you guys enjoyed! I know it was a long wait.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy, long time no see. I've been really busy with school and for some reason teachers like to pile exam after exam on their students. But I'm back and I'm ready. Especially after that horrendous dumpster fire that was the final season of GOT. Never not going to bitter about that.
> 
> Hope you guys all enjoy, tell me if I made any spelling errors. I typed all of this over mobile because unfortunately for me my computer isn't working at the moment. Also remember to COMMENT. Whenever anyone comments I get a rush of idk what but it's stronger than drugs guys I'm serious.

Joan  

 

_The man slammed her onto the rocky ground of the woods, snatching her off of the back of her horse before she could so much as get away, his thick arm curled around her waist like a stubborn weed. The few men around him wanted to maim her, leave her body twisted and mangled and broken. Raped, some even whispered, lust and vengeance in their power drunk eyes. But the hooded figure would have her for himself, and alive. The lovely southern flower dressed in virginal white, pure and untouched and his to tame, the man claimed with perverse satisfaction. His prize. The world faded to black as he chuckled, a twisted cruel thing, harsh on the ears. Her nightmares had become the very embodiment of her reality._

 

The night was alive, more than it had ever been this far north. The beast of the earth crept and crawled and hunted and howled, the owls and crows hooted and cawed with watchful eyes. The trees creaked, the bushes whimpered, the wind whispered ever so gently to those who cared to hear. The woods were at peace, everything serving its purpose. But farther away, if you hearkened to hear, was the aftermath of destruction and the infancy of chaos ready to insume further south.  The air was crisp with the smell of iron and blood and smoke. It crackled with the aftertaste of ozone. Screams ringed higher than the bells that chimed loudly at Last Hearth.

 

Joan could hear their distant pitch-though, growing fainter- even past the steady throb of her head and the rapid beat of her heart that pounded in her ears; equivalent to rain beating dirt to mud. The world around her looked bleary, drowned in vertigo, and her limbs felt like led, twisted and bent and bound. Bound. Panic began to rise as her vision grew clearer and senses sharpened.

 

Where was she? What happened? Her head began to ache as her consciousness forced her to recall everything that led to this moment.

 

Winterfell. She had just left Winterfell a fortnight ago before traveling along the Kingsroad with father. Soft words had been spoken, gentle goodbyes laced in heartache and silver lining, promises whispered that had yet to ring true or false. _The next time we see each other I'll tell you of your mother._ Only time would tell when that happened, if that happened. She wonders if she still has the necklace he gifted her. _It belonged to your mother._ What if her captor robbed her of it?

 

* * *

 

 

_The Great Hall was filled to the brink with warmth, sweltering bodies gliding in the halls bundled in furs and colorful wool. And it seemed that the South had brought their revered heat with them. There were even blood oranges from the hot sands of Dorne and small cakes made with fruit that couldn't have possibly hailed from the north. Bright and vibrant and as sweet as honeysuckle, not a drop of sourness to be detected. It was like something out of the songs, a fairytale come to life in Winterfells halls. Sansa practically glowed, and even Arya found some joy at the sight of all the knights in attendance. Knights! Joan wished she could've found such merriment._

 

_The king was here and with him the royal entourage, all five hundred of them and then some. The northern lords were there to, GreatJon and SmallJon included. SmallJon who sat next to her, looming like a giant, handsome and hardy and impossibly still. Awkward even. Just a shy few years older than Joan but already looked every bit the lord his father molded him to be. It was intimidating to say the least, even more so that he didn't care to instigate a conversation. And she was thankful for it, for she didn't trust her own voice not to break. Dacey would be beside herself with laughter. The young woman in question sat at one of the trestle tables, not to far away, with lords Bolton and Cerwyn. Even the Glovers were here, and just earlier Lady Glover cast her a warm, knowing smile. As if to say, that too had been her once, had been every lady in the Seven Kingdoms at some point in time, sitting next to their betrothed in awkward silence. It will get better, the woman eyes seemed to say, and Joan desperately wanted to believe her-_

 

Her face was pressed hard against a solid back, toned muscle covered by thick furs and leather. Coated with the scent of blood and iron, a thick waft of perspiration. Joan's stomach flipped at the observation. Time became obsolete, as minutes turned into hours and the ebb and flow of her life abruptly became disrupted in ways she couldn't really bring herself to truly grasp and comprehend at the moment. She wanted to scream but found that she'd not only been bound but gagged. Joan Snow wanted to weep, to cry, but the tears would only freeze on her face with the way the wind grew rigidly brumal.

 

Could anyone name a worse situation to be in? To be so helpless and clueless and defenseless at the same time. The thought of being taken advantage of, the thought of being vulnerable was nothing short of frightening, and her blood ran cold from rage and indignation. She's been taken, that she knows for certain, and on her wedding night no less. The castle had been infiltrated with wildlings, scoring the walls and murdering the drunken guards caught unawares by their attackers. SmallJon had immediately assembled with his father and fellow soldiers as the feast descended into madness. She had been escorted to some chambers, barred and secured, with two men posted outside the barricaded door. Isolated and alone, without a weapon, without Ghost. And then _he_ came and she climbed out the window with a maddening rush of adrenaline -enough to make her jump two stories down-, as her guards were slaughtered.

 

Should have listened to her right mind when it said to let Ghost roam free, the Umbers and a 'woman's place' be damned. At least Ghost would have did what they failed to do and protected her. She should have listened to her gut, her female intuition, her instincts, common sense -whatever the Maesters wanted to call it- that had told her to bring her weapon, the castle forged steel that Dacey had privately given her as a wedding gift, ironically enough. The pommel had been shaped to look like a direwolves head, white fur and blood red eyes. _Your sword is your life_ , Maege had told her once. And it was true, gods it was true. Joan had even told Arya as much. She could remember her sisters gleeful smile as the diminutive gleam of Needle shun in her bright wonderstruck eyes. Nothing had ever given Joan greater pride and joy than to see that look in her sisters attentive gaze, the love and appreciation, the affection that'd flown in waves for the elder sister who just knew Arya so well. The warmth that enveloped her from her little sister being in her arms, holding her tight, never letting go. And then Robb, who'd helped her commission the sword under his name. Loving, brotherly, noble Robb. If she could've, Joan would have choked out a sob.  No longer could she hear the chaos at Last Hearth, only the the trodding hooves that beat against the earth, spiriting her away from- _everything_.

 

* * *

 

_"Would you like to dance, my lady?" SmallJon's query came out clumsily, but Joan had never been more relieved. She loved dancing, even if she wasn't the best at it. Maybe there was hope, maybe her happily ever after wasn't so out of reach. They'd be married soon, at Last Hearth. If father couldn't be there Uncle Benjen had gladly offered to take his place. And maybe, just maybe, they'd grow to care for each other through time._

 

_SmallJon must of saw, he had to, the hopeful and eager look in her eyes as lords began to take their ladies by the hand and lead them in a dance. That meant, at the least, he was considerate of her feelings. The skin of his hand felt thick, but smooth like stone. They were so close, closer than they'd been the whole night. It was easy to forget the embarrassing morning after his arrival, with the king leering at her the moment his eyes settled on her. Easy to forget the queens cold stare, colder than Lady Stark's stares could ever be. Easy to forget Sansa slowly but surely falling back into old ways by keeping her distance from Joan, especially with the arrival of Princess Myrcella. Easy to forget everything, to get lost in the deep blue of his eyes, and course russet hair that curled around his ear, the handsome patch of stubble on his jaw. Joan could slowly feel herself getting sweet on him, much to her shock. And then just like that the dance ended, and with it the spell. He gave her a turse bow, a tight smile and left her on the dance floor. Perhaps he expected her to follow him back to their seats, but why would she? He'd said not a word to her when they danced, didn't really care to, and...it became abundantly clear SmallJon was not impressed or enchanted or taken with the long plain faced girl that he was to marry. That much she could tell. He was just trying to acquiesce her spirit with a dance while simultaneously acquiescing their fathers._

 

 _Patience Joan,_ she'd told herself then. _Patience_ , she told herself now. She closed her eyes, reaching out for Ghost. Theirs was a strong bond, ever since she'd gathered the pup in her arms all those weeks ago. Something had clicked in place, filling up a part that she hadn't known was empty, hadn't known it was there to begin with. That thick void of loneliness that called for belonging. Ghost would come for her, Joan knew this for certain. She could feel anticipation, panic, anger, and an irritation at being locked away and separated from her bonded companion that wasn't entirely her own. Those emotions all belonged to Ghost but Joan could _feel_ them to, as if they were her own. _I'll find you. I'll find you. I'll find you,_ the bond chanted.

 

* * *

 

 

_And then Jaime Lannister had swept in, a knight in shining armor but it wasn't to save the damsel in distress; only warn her as he spun her around on the damp stones. If he fought as good as he danced he was a formidable foe in deed. His hand had settled lightly on the small of her back, a feathery touch as his other hand grasped her own.  His breathe warm on her ear, but his words were cold._

 

_"I'm sure you've taken notice of the kings interest in you little one," she could hear the brittle smirk on his lips as he spun her around, right into the view of the king. The king who was watching her, eyes hooded and drunk, the wench on his lap all but forgotten. "He'd much rather have you on his lap."_

 

_Joan could feel dread creep upon her but remained silent as she met the kings lustful gaze, frightened like a doe. Blue lustful eyes, like the ones from her dream. No man should look at me that way, she thought with disgust._

 

_"No one can refuse the king, Lady Snow. Not even a lord's daughter. And especially not a lord's bastard daughter. If you don't want the honor of being the kings future whore I suggest you stay out of his sight,"_

 

_The dance ended and the Kingslayer gave her a gallant bow, a twinkle of cruel amusement in his green eyes. How could someone so handsome look so...cold._

 

_She fled the hall, running into a servant girl with a tray of ale along the way, causing some to guffaw at the spectacle. And she couldn't stop herself from crying in embarrassment as she ran to the safety of her room-_

 

She'd felt like a child then. And she felt like a child now. _You are a child,_ a voice countered sadly.

 

It was cold. So cold. Joan had never felt this cold before. She only wore the white brocade dress of white wool and cotton, pure virginal white. Or at least it was. It was soiled now, like she would soon be. The thought filled her with a strange kind of terror and everything faded to black from the overwhelming panic.

 

When she woke she was no longer pressed against a solid form but a solid ground. Still bound and gagged and terrified. Small pointy rocks pressed against her skin, and she could feel the dried crusted blood on her forehead, slowly peeling away as the skin creased in frustration. The wound throbbed with a vengeance, painfully so. And she still felt cold. The kind of cold that dried your lips and left them blue. She could hear voices, rough and ragged, her captors no doubt. Then loud domineering footsteps drew closer, and with each step her heart skipped. She closed her eyes tightly, feigning sleep. Maybe, if she squeezed them hard enough she'd wake up in her chambers at Winterfell, with Arya snuggled up against her for warmth.

 

A form hunched over the seemingly unconscious white figure, moving tangled strands of dark curly hair from in front of a pale face with a withered hand, almost gently.

 

"I know you're not sleeping, little girl." came a strong accented voice, deep and deadly. The hand gripped her jaw, squeezing as it tilted her head up. Her eyes reluctantly drew open. In her line of vision a dark silhouette appeared, faintly touched by the moon glow, tall and lean against the cut of trees, cloaked in darkness. Except his eyes. An icy mixture of blue and grey. She knows those eyes, knows them well even though it's her first time ever seeing them in the waking world. _They're just dreams_ , Dacey used to tell her _, it was only just a terrible dream_. Dacey was wrong. Something terrible twisted in her gut then, the hairs on her neck coming to stand.

 

And when he removes his hood and furs, revealing a head full of fiery red hair shining like a beacon in the dark- it was a shock that she couldn't see it until now-her blood freezes. Eyes sharp and amused, an unsettling cesious hue. _No man should look at me that way._ _Not Robert, not SmallJon, and not him. No one._

 

He let's her go but remains hunched over her, studying her just as much as she studies him. Everything about him was rugged and rough, from the strong cutting jawline covered in copper stubble to the crooked nose on a long gaunt face that's probably weathered many battles. From the way a scar proudly cuts through the thick of his right eyebrow. And his hair, long shaggy red tresses that curls around his shoulders. An untamed giant bush of it. She feels like she's seen it before in passing, at Winterfell but she couldn't be so sure. It could've been Robb or Sansa's, but no. Her siblings hair was a deep  auburn, a mixture of Lady Stark's copper and Lord Stark's brown. This man's hair was the imagery of fire, exaggeratingly so.

 

Joan swallowed thickly as their eyes met once more.

 

"Thirsty?" He quipped with a single arched eyebrow. He then brought out a flask of water, pressing it to her lips. She stubbornly kept them closed, ignoring her dry throat. She'd be damned if she accepted anything from her captor.

 

His smile dimmed, but he only shrugged at her defiance, regarding her further.

 

"You'll come around."

 

"Redbeard!" Another calls and soon his attention and presence is gone. The funny thing is that she feels it's absence.

 

* * *

 

 

Joan Snow observes everything and thanks all the gods that her kidnapper didn't blindfold her as well. All she has is little mercies. But it's useless in the end, because everything looks the same to her innocent eyes. Even the trees and the snow, that betrays nothing to her.

 

Her belly growls.

 

"Have you ever seen a man starve to death, little one? I have, I've starved many a man for torture. A fate worse than death, a slow fate.

 

She doesn't respond to the kidnapper, ignoring her grumbling stomach and parched throat in favor of pride and stubbornness. She hasn't eaten in three days. It's hard to sit up most of the time, hard to watch her surroundings or the people who surround her on an empty stomach. Only sleep keeps the cry of hunger away.

 

"It's like a disease almost," he continues with a grim smile. "It'll rot you from the inside out, eatin' at everythin' inside until all you feel is your body gnawing at your liver, your muscles, even your heart. Trying to fill that hunger but it ain't ever enough. Your stomach swells up but it ain't full of anythin'. You can barely move at the end, it's too painful cause your skin will start peelin' and bleedin' at any move ya make. Even if you wanted to escape me, your legs would be to swell to lift, your bones to brittle and weak, easy to break. You'd shit yourself a lot to, you wouldn't be able to help it," his smile widened. The man leaned in closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her face."Even if you did manage to escape, no one, not even your little lordling would recognize you. Would sooner put you _down_ as a mercy. Now, I know you're too prideful to go out like that, hm?"

 

The man was right, she was too prideful to waste away.  If she died she'd die with sword in hand. Begrudgingly she opened her mouth to the horse meat she previously rejected, swallowing it down along with her shame at giving up. It was the horse father had gifted her, the horse that this man stole to steal her away and then slaughtered when it was of no more use to him, other than to feed off of like a scavenger. The meat tasted like ash on her tongue.

 

When night fell he untied her, strangely enough. Then again, she's surrounded by a band of wildlings, all of whom have weapons, and have no love for the stolen bride of ice. And he knows that she knows this. The chances of her running into more wildlings was great and whose to say they'd be as kind as these ones. Kind, the thought made her snort.

 

"Something funny little one?" The man goaded. The men around him looked at her, as if they'd forgotten she was there and then remembered, eyes darkening.

 

She made sure to make no further sound.

 

She knows for a fact that these men are wildlings, the majority of whom do not speak the Common Tongue. Their weapons are made from iron and bronze, covered head to toe in furs and steel.

 

They respect Joan's captor, the captor who has claimed her for himself, and that is the only reason why none have tempted to rape her, although she knows they want to. The respect is evident in the way that they follow his lead and command.  He's the clan leader, as Old Nan would call them. It's quite apparent in the way that he walks, the way that he smirks, so sure of himself. That dangerous glint he gets in his eye sometimes, especially when he looks at her. It's the same glint he has when he's hunting snow bunnies, with a steady grip on his weirwood bow. Joan had been little more than hunting game for him, it was only a matter of time before he devoured her.   _Men are like hounds Joan,_ she recalled Old Nan's wise words. It makes Joan shiver. Is this how Sten felt? Joan could empathize with him now more than she ever could before.

  
  


* * *

 

 

The first time she tries to escape is when he takes her out into the woods, just the two of them alone. Her mind is racing with all the reasons why he might be taking her to an isolated area. And the way his men whoop and holler after them doesn't ease her worries in the slightest.

 

The woods are quiet, undisturbed by the stolen girl and her kidnapper until they near a small stream of water with a lone traveler and his horse. A man of the Night's Watch. The black brother had seen them before her kidnapper could hide them away. What followed was a series of questions and guarded looks tinted with suspicion, the air thick with tension. The kidnapper held her close, so close the girl felt the rapid thud of his heart. Joan had tried so hard to show through her eyes the panic and fear she felt, even while wearing a smile underneath her kidnapper's watchful gaze. Help me, her eyes pleaded. It worked, for all the good it did her or the unlucky stranger. The man was dead before noon.

 

Her situation became all to real then, at the sight of steal clashing and blood being drawn. She should have ran, but she'd been frozen in place where the captor had thrown her. Struck by shock and a paralyzing fear. Everything happened so quickly and she could barely believe it was happening. The kidnappers sword impelled the stranger through the stomach, blood and guts spilling forth. The earth swallowed it up.

 

The kidnapper had been quick to snatch her up and push her onward before she could come to her senses and do the reasonable thing anyone in her situation would have done-ran. They stopped after a while and just when she expected the worse to happen he'd shoved clothing in her arms.

 

"Change your clothes," the command was simple and yet it puzzled her. "Go on, change. Now."

 

The force in his voice made her move with haste, still shaken from the sight of him murdering the black brother.

 

It almost hurt to let it go, to take the dress off. For a time, Sansa had helped her with it, before Myrcella arrived and stole her little sister's attention-and admiration away. When Sansa left, Old Nan and Dacey took her place, helping Joan stitch the delicate designs together. It had come out so beautifully, and was a source of pride, something that she might have one day passed onto daughters of her own. A brocade of snowflakes elegantly crawling toward the hem and cuffs. Dazzled with small white beads that'd glowed in the summer sun. The most loveliest thing Joan had ever owned, made with the women she'd cherished. Now it was all ruined, because of _him._

 

She hadn't enough courage to tell him to turn away, ready to endure his hungry gaze but to her surprise he turned around on his own. Joan'd hesitantly slipped from the ruined wedding gown in lieu for thick breeches and a large fur coat, shivering from the cold and the bite of snow beneath her toes before putting her boots back on. It was then that her eyes had fallen upon a sharp rock as she laced the strings to her boots, and slowly picked it up. It was heady in her palms, had a good weight to it. With all her might she threw it at the back of his head-uncertain in her aim but not really caring- and broke off into a sprint. She'd vaguely recall hearing a sharp hiss and string of curses as heavy footfalls followed after her.

 

She'd dodged thick trees and branches, following the distant sound of the stream, going further and further until suddenly she was in the outskirts and the Wall itself came into view. Great and magnificent, beyond her wildest imaginations. It'd taken her breath away and so did her kidnapper when he tackled her to the ground, stealing the air from her lungs.

 

"I'll admit," he began haggardly as he flipped her onto her back, "You almost had me for a second. That hurt like hell but I thought you'd never come around. 'Bout time you tried to knock me out." He finished with a breathless laugh, exhilarated, and she saw him for the madman that he was. She struggled in his arms.

 

"Let me go you crazed, idiot!"

 

"Now, now lil lady. Don't be gettin' any ideas," he hoisted her up, like she weighed nothing to him, and threw her over his shoulder. Little more than a sack of meat. "You're still mine to keep."

 

"No I'm not!" She exclaimed, beating on his solid back with her small fist, but it was all for not. He started back the way they came. "I'm not anyone's to keep!" She spat with venom. It wasn't true even in the slightest and she knew it, and she knew he knew it to. It made her all the more bitter.

 

"Oh really? You sure didn't mind being Umber's. Or, you at least made a good show of not mindin' but I saw past that pretty lil smile you wore. Anyone with eyes did. He wouldn't have made you happy. But I will."

 

"Make me happy?" She cried. "By stealing me away from my family and home?!" At that she began wriggling again, kicking her legs in hope's of hitting him in his smug face. The man remained unbothered by her futile attempts.

 

She howled in frustration, exasperated at his unfathomable indifference to her defiance. If she couldn't be defiant silently or defiant boldly, how could she defy him at all?

 

"I will never stop running away from you-you _savage_!" The man halted. She tried to ignore the satisfaction she felt at that, at her words having sway over him, because it was strange and wrong and it made absolutely no sense. "My father will come for me and when he does you will rue the day you thought to steal a daughter of House Stark."

 

Perhaps she'd gone to far, overestimated how far his patience ran, because suddenly she's thrown from over his shoulder and shoved into the trunk of a pine tree. The pain of it is almost numbing but the fear overpowers that.

 

"Good. Let him come then, _m'lady_." Those blue eyes were alight with a cold rage that chilled her to the bone. He looked at her with murderous intent and for a moment she thought that he might kill her. Thought that at any moment the large hand wrapped around her throat would squeeze until something snapped, until her face was blue and purple, eyes bloodshot. The moment passed.

 

"But you are mine lil lady," he continued, hand loosened from around her neck. The pale skin began to darken. "And when your belly is swell with my child your father will know it to."

 

* * *

 

 

She didn't speak much after that and the man was immensely pleased with her silence, even started to hum to himself as he carried her over his shoulder.

 

When they made it back to the band of savages (warriors) they all cheered, as if her kidnapper had won something. And he did, although not what they thought he won, at least not yet.

 

* * *

 

 

No amount of dread or fear could steal away the wonder of seeing the Wall. A solid barrier of ice stretching three hundred miles wide and seven hundred feet high. It shimmered in the sun with a golden crystallizing glow and hummed with a magnetic force that called to her. Thrumming with power and purpose and history, as if it knew it was something to be reckoned with, knew it was a thing of wonder and magnificence. Almost as if it were alive and personified.

 

"Beautiful," the word escaped her before she could halt it. The kidnapper gave her an unreadable look.

 

"I promise you won't think so after we climb it, little one,"

 

Joan looked at him in disbelief. Then let out a shaky, nervous laugh. "You can't be serious,"

 

She knew he was though. His men prepared themselves with ropes and hammers and boots of supple deerskin spiked with iron along with other necessary equipment that all pointed to them scaling up the Wall.

 

"I'm dead serious," he responded with a devilish grin, and for a fleeting second, he was her brother Robb or stupid Theon, teasing her with a scary story or a terrible jape. She paled, shuddering at the mental comparison. Was she going mad?

 

"What's wrong lil lady? Are you afraid?" He said as he dangled a pair of spiked boots in front of her before dropping them at her feet.

 

"No. What do I have to be afraid of? It was my ancestors who built it." She lifted up her chin, proud and stubborn even in her fear.

 

His eyes darkened at her rebuttal but his smile never faltered. If anything it widened.

 

"All the good that it did you. Certainly didn't keep you from me." Suddenly, his hands were on her waist, pulling her close despite her hands flying to his chest, ready to resist, but stopped at the feel of his lips on hers. Chapped and hungry, with the faintest hint of mead and the mint that she noticed he liked to idly chew on when making more arrows to fill his quiver up.

 

She opened her eyes - when had they closed? - and repressed the urge to slap that smug smile off his face.

 

 _Father will come for me,_ she reassures herself. _And if not father then Robb. If not Robb then Uncle Benjen._ They were all she had. Maybe the Umber's but they weren't who she wanted. Her family. That's all she wanted.

 

 _I'll launch a thousand ships if I have to,_ she'd cherished her father's words as a girl but clinged to them desperately now. _He'd launch a thousand ships for me, he promised he would. If he'd do that then he'd travel beyond the Wall to._

  


* * *

 

 

The kiss her kidnapper gave her is the only thing she could think about much to her annoyance. But it was better than thinking about how far from the ground she was, how far of a fall it would be if she made the wrong step or slipped or grew tired. The man was right beneath her, ready to catch her should that happen. They were connected by a rope and he assured her he was strong, that he'd kept people who'd weighed more than her from falling before. But that only reaffirmed the possibility of falling at all.

 

He'd given her gloves and told her to use the 'axe' to ground her to the ice. A constant thing of hacking and hammering and heaving, pulling her body further and further up toward the heavens. A tiring task that was near endless. She was thankful for the garb he'd made her change into back in the woods, there was no possible way she could have made it a foot off the ground with it on.

 

 _Don't look down,_ he'd told her. Never look down. Beads of sweat gathered at her brow, and her thighs burned like never before. Joan Snow sent a little prayer to the gods and hoped they heard her. Though the only thing she got in response was the distant cawing and croaking of ravens and crows.

* * *

 

The edge of the world is beautiful, especially when the sun is setting, casting the world below in an array of gloomy red and violet. She doesn't know where the world begins or ends from this view. This is what it feels like to be a man of the Night's Watch, Joan believes this with every fiber of her being. For in another life, had she been born a man, this would've been her place. Joan thought of uncle Benjen then, Uncle Benjen who she refused to believe was dead, and knew he was looking for his stolen niece. Wherever she might be. _I'm here nuncle, at the place you call as home._

 

The kidnapper didn't question her when her smile grew wider, as wistful as it was, and she hadn't even noticed she was smiling. Tried to ignore the way his eyes lingered on her lips.

 

* * *

 

 

When she almost falls on the way down she thinks of Bran, of how he might have felt. Bran who might still be in a coma, Bran who might be dead, Bran who she might never see again, hold again. This is what he felt. A burst of all consuming panic and alarm as the footing is thrown off. The fruitless struggle of grasping at chunks of ice and stone to no avail, slipping further with a scream on the lips. She thinks of the last words Lady Catelyn's ever spoke to her. _'It should have been you.'._ And thinks that the lady's wish may very well come true until the man catches her, just barely. Enough to steady her between his chest and the Wall.

 

"I have you. I have you." he says softly. So soft, it startled her. "I won't let you fall. I promise. Just-stay calm."

 

It both soothes her and angers her because she wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. But she is and, well, she _doesn't_ want to fall. And he won't let her.

 

The way down is harder because of it but he never lets her go. He keeps one arm around her and the other on the ice as he steadily eases their way down. On his back is his bow and quiver, and a ramp that's half his size. But despite the weight on his back and the girl he holds onto, he persists tirelessly. He must be strong, she thinks. He feels strong and solid, even through the thick of furs. And she feels...secure. The thought is disconcerting but that's how he'd made her feel at the moment. Not entirely safe but secure. He may hurt her, she realized, but he'd make sure nothing else would.

 

* * *

 

 

When they reach the bottom they don't stop for a break, except to change their boots but that lasts a few minutes before they're on the move again.

 

In the woods south of the wall -and the thought was daunting to think that she was beyond it- when the clan traveled, they traveled not in a horde but separately. It was easier to spot a band of wildlings after all, but far harder to find one single individual. They knew the woods so well that they knew were to regroup and where to separate. But Beyond the Wall, it was a different story. They traveled as one unit. This was their land, their home. They had nothing to hide from in it.

 

Everything would have been covered in complete darkness if it weren't for the moon, and the red wanderer that beamed brightly against the night sky.

 

"That there is the Thief, lil lady" the man-Yves Redbeard began. "It burned brightly on the night I stole you, and burns even brighter now."

 

"Why does that matter?" She challenged, growing weary as the night dragged along the endless tundra of snow.

 

Yves grinned. "A good time to steal a woman. A good omen."

 

Joan remained silent for a moment before speaking. "My names not 'lil lady'. My name is Joan Sn- Umber." Right, she was an Umber, for all that she'd been married to SmallJon for half a night

 

"You're no _Umber_ , girl." Yves spat the name menacingly, as if it were a curse. "If you were I wouldn't have spared you,"

 

Joan shivered. "Joan Snow then. My name is Joan Snow." She didn't feel comfortable naming herself a Stark, even if she'd been legitimized by the king.

 

"Joan Snow, not Stark? So, you're what they call a bastard then."

 

Her face goes completely blank, but her eyes are cold as she regards the man who stole her away. It seemed she'd never be able to escape her name. Even Beyond the Wall. She took pleasure in seeing his smile fall at her reaction, a frown taking its place. But it goes away when she sees pity in his eyes, and hates him a little bit more because of it. She doesn't need his _pity_.

 

* * *

 

 

_Cersei Lannister is not a cold woman, in fact she's the farthest thing from cold when compared to her twin brother. No, she's all fire and passion, burning brightly with a vengeance in her emerald eyes. Like old wildfire, fickle and ready to set off at the faintest spark._

 

_Her ringed grip is tight on Joan's upper arm, and the younger girl knows that it would not be wise to fake pleasantries and propriety. The woman will have none of it._

 

_Joan had been on her way to visit Bran before the Queen stopped her at the door. It seemed they'd had the same idea. The woman's smile was sickly sweet but her eyes and hands betrayed her as she studied the bastard girl with almost feverish eyes._

 

_"You look just like her, you know." She'd said with a tilt of her head, golden curls falling over her shoulder._

 

_Joan had frowned, still bewildered that the Queen was touching, let alone speaking to her._

 

_"Your Grace?" She inquired, almost desperate in hopes that the woman would remember herself and let her go.The woman's nails were beginning to dig into the fabric of Joan's sleeve. Queens didn't touch or look at bastards and Joan would like to keep it that way._

 

_The woman let go at the sound of Joan's voice, smile thinning. She placed her hands neatly above her abdomen, cold and regal again._

 

_"You look much like your aunt Lyanna." Robert Baratheon's beloved, went unsaid but it hung in the air, foul and thick. "But I'm sure you hear that quite often, no? Of course not, the name must be forbidden this far North. Such a tragedy, what happened to her."_

 

_Joan swallowed thickly. "Yes Your Grace." How else was she supposed to respond to that? How could she respond to that without earning the woman's ire, or worse, Lady Catelyn's or father's ire._

 

_"You look like her but you're nothing like her at all. She was a wild little thing, but you...you're quiet and calm. And a bastard, no true lady. Though some could argue that she wasn't either. Pray tell, why are you here?" The woman's beautiful face crumbled up in disdain._

 

_Joan was baffled. She had more right to be here than the Queen, this was her brother and she doesn't know when she'll be able to see him again after she leaves. Joan wanted to get all the time she could with her siblings, but none more than Bran at the moment. Her poor brother, in an endless sleep, and broken body._

 

_She said none of this however, she'd be a fool to do so._

 

_"To visit my brother your Grace, he's-" she closed her eyes at the thought of Bran's state. She hadn't seen him yet but according to Robb… she shook the thought away as her eyes opened. "I want to see him, before I leave."_

 

_"You are a presumptuous little girl aren't you? Do you think Lady Stark would appreciate seeing her husband's bastard looking over her true born sons broken body? Or seeing his bastard at all during such a delicate time. Do us all a favor and leave, bastard. Now." The Queens words settled in like poison in Joan's head. Because even if she was being cruel the woman was right. Joan could wait until the day she left for Last Hearth._

 

_She did as the woman bid, only to run into Tyrion Lannister in the library._

 

_"Hello bastard!" Today was shaping out to be a terrible day, testing her patience at every turn._

 

_It took everything in her to not turn around and leave. The Lannisters were making it unbearable to live in her own home. The people of Winterfell and Lady Catelyn already did that enough she doesn't need the lions to do it to._

 

_"Oh," the Imp continued. "Do you not like that name?" He settled down the tome he was reading and hopped down from his seat with practiced ease._

 

_"But isn't that what you are, a bastard?"_

 

_"I'm Lord Stark's daughter." She quipped indignantly._

 

_"Yes, but you're not Lady Stark's daughter, which makes you a bastard." The Imp retorted._

 

_Joan had had enough. "I won't be a bastard for long!"_

 

_Tyrion Lannister cocked his head to the side in confusion, as if she'd grown a second head. "Do you speak of your marriage to Lord Smalljon Umber? Do you really think marriage can hide that taint, that people will suddenly forget because you changed your name from Snow to Stark to Umber? You grew up a bastard, you act like a bastard and people will always treat you like one. As you saw earlier with my sister._

 

_Joan was startled. He'd overheard the conversation she had with the Queen?_

 

_"So here's some advice girl. Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used to hurt you."_

 

_After they'd sat in a strange comfortable silence in Winterfell's library, save the times Tyrion started a new topic of discussion. Whether that be the tales of the mythical Sara Snow and the supposed marriage to Jacaerys Velaryon or if there could possibly be dragon eggs deep within the bowels of the crypt, even if both were very unlikely._

 

_"You know despite what you might think, my sister pities that a northern beauty such as yourself will be locked away in some cold desolate tower in the far north. She isn't without her sympathies...or humor." Despite the ill mannered jape, Tyrion Lannister's smile was warm and wistful, a wistfulness she'd long grown used to receiving from her father and Lady Maege and every other northern lord or lady she came into contact with. Everyone seemed to see a ghost in her, some lost love or beloved sister or long gone friend-_

 

Joan wondered where Lord Tyrion was now. He'd been at her wedding and stayed for the feast for a short while before heading down the Kingsroad with all intentions of beating Uncle Benjen to the Wall. Funnily she'd managed to surpass them both in their race and then some. She wondered if he survived the wildling attack, wondered if he'd hear news of her fate, and at the very least, be saddened by it.

 

The clan stops in front of the outskirts of the forest. The Haunted Forest. She recalls Maester Luwin briefly going over the lands beyond the Wall. They hadn't been of importance then and she wishes the Maester would have paid more attention to the cold, foreign lands of the far north. Wishes she would have paid attention.

 

It's so silent, so forlorn. Like a godswood. She thinks of Sten and his tale of cold, dead things creeping in the dark.

 

One of the man light a torch, passing it to Yves, whose unsettlingly quiet. "Stay close to me," he says, in that soft voice he uses when he wants to keep her safe, and she doesn't hesitate to grab onto him, to both of their surprise.

 

It's the first time she's ever seen him puzzled in the fortnight she's been with him. Then that puzzlement becomes smug satisfaction and she clenches her jaw at the sight of it.

 

* * *

 

  


Joan feels as if she's being watched and the others feel the same. Like a thousand eyes are glued to her back, and the feeling only grows whenever they pass a weirwood, and she'd never seen so many in a single place. Not even in the godswood. They feel and look older than the one back at Winterfell.

 

Her connection with Ghost is strengthened to. It had strained at first, when she passed the Wall but now it felt stronger than before. The she-wolf grew closer, following the faint trail of her bonded. _I'll find you._ She believed in the wolfling. If no one else was looking for Joan then she knows that the she-wolf is.

 

"We'll stop here and rest," Yves tells them, and despite the feeling of being watched whenever near a weirwood, it felt safer somehow.

 

* * *

 

 

 _When she dreams, she dreams of being on the ground on all fours, snow buried beneath her paws and soaking her thick coat of fur. She's restless in this dream, and searches tirelessly for the girl. She sniffs out the discarded wedding dress, joyous to find a new trail, fresh and strong. There's a man following after the she-wolf, dressed in black with grey eyes and dark hair that falls to his shoulders, along with other men and hunting hounds. She smells their anxiousness,  anticipation and panic, and a bit of relief and dread at the new discovery. They're close but not close enough and only the gods know what they'll find at the end. A living breathing girl, broken and violated but at the very least alive or something worse, something completely dead. But Ghost knows that they have no need to worry, not yet at least. Not when her bonded companions emotions are so_ **_loud-_ **

  


Joan nearly jolts out of Yves's arms as she wakes, stifling a gasp. The fact that she's even in his arms to begin with is enough to be disgruntled. But he's warm, _very_ warm, and she wasn't used to the unforgiving cold of the far narth. Most of the wildlings slept back to back, close together for warmth. She could feel his solid chest pressed against her, rising and falling against her back. His left leg was nestled between her thighs, as if it had any right being there. The man was all over her, even his smell, and his face was soundly buried in her hair, breath warm. Arms wrapped around her so securely. Not only that but..there was something else. Something that poked at her backside with great urgency and suddenly she _knew_ what it was. No, no, _no._ Once again she found herself struggling in his arms.

 

Yves woke with a groan that soon turned into a raspy chuckle at her attempts to escape his grasp.

 

"Now, now there ain't no need for all of that." He let her go, allowing her to scramble to her feet. It took everything in her not to kick him as she did.

 

* * *

Benjen

 

The ground was covered in freshly fallen summer snow, the soil hardened and the branches frosted in its wake. The air was wiry and brisk, chapping the lips and making the eyes water from the unrelenting wind. The hounds rested by the wavering flames of the campfire with the Umber men who sat quiet and somber, including Small Jon. The youth had been the most quiet Benjen had seen him, granted he'd only known the lad in passing from the times Benjen had stopped at the Umber keep in the past. The lad couldn't take his eyes from the porcelain wool tainted by dirt, smelling of mildew and must.

 

The direwolf paced back and forth, restless but unwilling to leave Benjen's side, and that too seemed to unnerve the Umber's. The lone Stark would have much rather went with the Mormont search party than sit in the insufferable silence. There was much blame to go around, much blame to land at the others feet, but Benjen knew better than to do that. He knew Small Jon blamed himself, and Benjen was all to familiar with that kind of guilt. Funnily enough, Joan didn't think the lad cared for her much but that couldn't have been further from the truth. Small Jon was shy was all, and she was his liege daughter, bastard or not, and Ben knew that in itself was intimidating on its own. Benjen let out a sigh, watching the small cloud of fog materialize on his breath.

 

They'd just found the dead watch men, yards  away from the gown. Benjen had known him, and made sure to give the man a proper burial befitting a brother of the Night's Watch, building up a hasty pyre. No doubt the man had run into wildlings, and a wishful part of Benjen hoped he might of saw Jo with them, for all the good it did anyone.

 

The memory of the night of the wildling attack was fleeting at best. Brief glimpses of men dying at the end of his sword, as he rushed and hurried to wherever they'd placed Joan. But when he'd finally reached the room it'd been broken into, emptied of any living soul, and the guards were dead.  The only evidence that Joan may have been in there at all was the discarded marriage cloak and an open window. The implications of what happened settled in like poison, and that's when he'd began to panic, albeit alone and silently, before coming back to his senses. Enough to approach the Umber's and gather a searching party at least.

 

"Do you think the Imp has reached Winterfell with the news yet?" Small Jon spoke for the first time that evening, mournfully.

 

That was right, Benjen remembered. Not only had they sent a raven to Robb but they'd sent a page to relay the message to Lord Tyrion who'd more likely than not stop by at Winterfell on his way down the Kingsroad, should the raven not reach the young wolf in time. Hopefully, Ben thought, the Imp would reach Ned Stark as well. Preferably in enough time for the lord to turn back around before he went past the Neck. Benjen doubted his brother could do that even if he wanted to. The King was most insistent in Ned becoming Hand of the King. The lone wolf cursed.

 

"Perhaps. It shouldn't be long now before Robb responds." _Let's hope he doesn't do anything foolish when he does._

 

The past week was becoming more and more like a rehashing of the late years of his boyhood. He could see much of his brother Brandon, the wild wolf, in his nephew. Wolf's blood and all.

 

Though he was one to talk.

 

Benjen Stark had thought of himself as the calm one out of the four of his siblings, only second to Ned. He'd managed to stay calm when Lyanna- and just thinking the name still brought about a dull ache in his heart- had disguised herself as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Had stayed calm when she started corresponding with the Crown Prince. Had  stayed calm when she ran away and stayed even calmer when she returned as a corpse. And isn't it ironic, that her daughter would be the one to bring about this surge of panic and dread within him?

 

The white gown stood out starkly, even against the freshly fallen snow. It was soiled with dirt and spots of blood, and the fabric had drank up the snow. A far cry from what it had been a senight ago. And Joan had looked so beautiful, so much like her mother. It was easy to imagine Lyanna in Joan's place, easy to latch onto the things she'd inherited from her mother, and pretend if only for a second that it was Lya. How did Ned manage for so long? The thought always made him feel guilty, especially whenever he visited Winterfell and could barely look at the girl for more than a few seconds without seeing Lya. Joan Snow is not her mother, that's what he'd always told himself and yet, in the end, she was everything like her mother.

 

Young and willful and beautiful, a northern girl stolen away from her betrothed (from her home, from her family.) and may very well return to Winterfell a frozen corpse. The very idea made his blood boil, made him double the searches and trek the woods relentlessly. He had to find her before that happened. And it was with those same thoughts that went against his vows that practically forbade attachment to anything in regards to the Seven Kingdoms that he decided that his search for her would not end South of the Wall. He'd venture into the real north, with or without his Lord Commanders permission. The wolf's blood, Benjen thought, was something that every Stark had, even the calm ones.

 

The direwolf looked at him with something akin to understanding and he was once again reminded of how intelligent the beast was. The poor thing had howled soundlessly into the night, barely louder than the wind, scratching at the stable walls as battles raged and her owner was taken. Even after the bloodshed, she'd been kept locked away as the Umber's sent out search parties to look for Ned Stark's daughter, whom been placed in an isolated room with two guards for protection and no weapon to protect herself should they fail to. Only Benjen had the sense to release the she-wolf, if anyone could find the girl it was the beast. Benjen had seen how close the two were on their trip to Last Hearth, almost inseparable.

 

If no one else would join Benjen on his crusade beyond the Wall, he knew the she-wolf would. Ghost nuzzled her white snout against Benjen's calves. That was all the assurance he needed.

 

* * *

 

Jon

 

The air was arid and dry this far east. The sun had no mercy on its unsuspecting victims, scorching both exposed backs and the golden sands into a burnishing red. But the excessive heat did not deter the progress of the Khalasar and the spectators that followed after it. The Great Horde was a melting pot of slaves from opposing Khalasars and Slavers Bay. Merchants, princes and magisters from the Summer Isles and Free Cities flocked to it, eager to converse and bargain with the Khal Bharbo. There were even red priestess, with their jeweled speeches of prophecy and red silks, sent from the Temple of R’hllor by the High Priestess herself, whose curiosity of the Great Khal Bharbo and his ambitions has only grown since the marriage between the Dragon Prince and the Dothraki Princess.

 

Jon could almost imagine the Essosi's surprise when news of the unlikely union spread. He could only imagine what the uproar or indifference the news would be met with once it reached Westeros, along with the dire consequences it would bring for Daeron himself. The Usurper still thirst for vengeance and the moment he got whiff of the young boys whereabouts the assassins knives wouldn't be far behind. The boy seemed to know it to. He moved about anxiously amongst the people who were drawn to his silver hair and violet eyes. The ones who knew him for the slave boy who fought in the pits either looked at him with appraisal or disdain, and the slaves of Khal Bharbo more often than not looked at him pleadingly. As if he could save them. The boy could barely save himself, Jon thought. Forever shall he remain at the whims and mercy of his belligerent brother whose strings were pulled by the men who controlled him. Forever shall they be several steps behind Varys and Illyrio and the little birds that crept in the cold shadows, and fewer steps ahead of hidden knives. Jon thanks all the gods that Aegon was hidden, and presumed dead. No one would be looking for him, not until it was too late to do anything about it.

 

The horde stopped at the banks of the Upper Rhoyne. Ramps and tents and grass palaces rose in the wake of the evening. That did not manage to settle the loud hum of voices and song, or seize the bustle of movement the horde was constantly entrapped in. It was large and a great attraction that only grew with every exaggeration of the tales and gossip that filtered out of the sizzling pot of contrasting cultures. Everyone wanted something, whether it was to confirm the rumors surrounding the khal and the Prophecy he was set on fulfilling or to plot and play games in the whirlpool of power. The horde, Khal Bharbo, the marriage and the Last Targaryens proved that even the impossible was possible, the unthinkable was thinkable. Even Jon could feel the winds of change, the sickly taste of ambition and power and the hungry grasp for glory. The Khal of all Khals, with his Great Golden Horde and his Silver Son and Bronze Daughter soon to conceive the Stallion who Mounts the World. And Jon was thrown directly into the mix of this chaos, away from the resolute life he led with Aegon on the _Shy Maid._ The ginger cursed Illyrio for the umpteenth time. At the very least, the magister and the Spider had enough grace to keep him informed of Aegon's whereabouts and progress in studies, sending the man little messages from the wide web of little birds, even this far in Essos. The Spider's influence would be unnerving if it wasn't so convenient. In return, Jon kept them informed of Daeron, and he suspected Ser Jorah Mormont did the same with Viserys.

 

At the pace the horde was moving they'd reach Norvos in two moons time, at the least, and it'd be few moons more before they managed to pass Qohor and enter the Dothraki sea. Viserys Targaryen was all the more impatient for it, and Jon couldn't help but to take pleasure in the fools discontent. It would be a long while before the king got the army he sold his brother for, and even then, the Khal had his own goals in mind. Likely, it would be a long time before Khal Bharbo even deigned to consider Westeros in his labyrinth of plans of reshaping the far east into his own image, and even longer before he entertained the thought of leaving his life's work behind for a foreign land across the poisonous waters the Dothraki abhorred.

 

The king in question sat in his pavilion, drinking his wine bitterly while staring into the flames, nursing his anger and suspicion as the day’s passed by without a single word from Khal Bharbo. _This isn't going to go the way you thinks it's going to go._

 

The Targaryens were like shards of silver among the seething sea of copper. How long before they drowned in it? Jon wasn't planning on drowning with them.

  


_“Surely Daeron has bedded the wench,”_ Viserys had grimaced a moon ago, a senight after the horde moved from the gates of Pentos. _“They both look pleased enough. It won't be long before she's popping out one of his half bred whelps.”_

 

In a way, it was true. The girl had seemed to glow upon their return from the bedding, and Daeron had been dirtied and disheveled, a boyish grin on his face. Jon’s skin crawled at the thought.

 

It only took a woman’s touch to change the boy’s entire mindset on the situation. Jon was gravely disappointed, but he wasn't surprised. The girl was no doubt instructed in the womanly arts of love, and even in Jon's contempt he could admit she was exotic. Men like what they've never had. It was something that simply couldn't be helped in truth.  Still, he nursed the bitterness that resided in his heart and followed after Daerons trail, strangely pained with a familiar ache all the while. Jon had no right to be, and often chastised himself for his unbidden feelings.

 

Had this been what the magister intended? The man, for whatever reason, wanted him away from Aegon, _Jon’s_ son in all but name and blood. And placed him right in the midst of Rhaegar's ghost.

 

Jon had been searching for Daeron for nigh on an hour. Khal Bharbo made it a point of keeping Daeron Targaryen by his side, whether it be as they rode or as they walked, the bloodriders and combined khas not far behind. Jon rarely had a chance to be around him for the Khal was bent on ingraining his ways into Daeron. And for all intents and purposes, it seemed to work. Just as Daeron was the son the khal never had, the khal was the father, albeit unconventional, that Daeron never had. The boy traded in silks and elaborately designed tunics for painted vest and leather breeches, and was becoming more at ease when on the white stallion the Khal gifted him. His hair had been oiled and braided, though lacking of bells. The boy hadn't been bestowed that honor, not yet. The monstros valyrian steel arakh had been taken as well, until Daeron could prove himself worthy of it in the Khal's eyes.

 

The boy took to Khal Bharbo's lessons with great enthuse, eagerly learning the language, eagerly bedding the little brown girl, eagerly dressing like them, when only a moon ago he’d been dreading the very thought of being with these people.  And now he sought the Khals approval, a sort of approval Jon knows he'd never gotten from Viserys as a child, the only approval a brother could give to his younger siblings or a father can give to a son. A mantle the Khal was eagerly taking on for his own schemes and plans. _The son he never had_ , Jon thought sourly.

 

Jon spotted the young boy soon enough, sitting amidst the ezzolats- teachers- that were appointed to him, and  hurried over to them, taking a seat on the woodenly surface across from Daeron. The boy smiled at him, before introducing his teachers.

 

“Rakharo, Jhogo and Aggo, all of whom are ko’s themselves,” he said in a delighted little voice. Understandable. The ezzolats were of an age with Daeron, at the least in their late teens or early twenties.

 

Jon had yet to see if their lessons with Daeron were paying off but the boy looked complicit. Jon almost didn't want to bother him. Almost. Especially with Jorah Mormont lingering about. And close, to close, to Daeron. Jon had noticed that to. The man was growing closer to the young prince, and would often be found following behind Daeron instead of his own charge Viserys.  They all sat around a fire, eating freshly roasted horse meat and blood sausages, passing along a horn of fermented milk freely.

 

Daeron managed to sound as smooth as butter even when he spoke uneased Dothraki, voice not quite used to the harsh tongue. Whatever he’d said to Rakharo seemed to please the young warrior, for he friendly nudged the abashed Valyrian with a knowing look. Oh, they spoke of the Dothraki girl no doubt, some bawdy uncivilized joke passing between the two as the others laughed and Ser Jorah smiled a wistful smile at the joys of youth. Jon tried not to grimace.

 

“You’ve taken to these people quite well,” Jon spoke suddenly, tired of listening to the roughened drag of the Dothraki language.

 

The boy frowned. “Well, if I want to adapt, I have to.” If he wanted to survive, he meant. “I try to help with the little things that I can, and I try to learn the language as best as I can.”

 

“These things do not go unnoticed and trying to build a bridge rather than burning it goes a long way,” Ser Jorah spoke for the first time that night. “You’ve given aid, when you were not permitted to. That has not gone unnoticed either.”  The old knight then looked to Jon, bemused at Jon’s growing irritation toward the man. “Daeron has proved himself quite the hunter, an invaluable skill for the Dothraki. A hunters skill can determine the survival or starvation of a Khalasar.”

 

Jon was taken aback. “Hunting? When have you been hunting?”

 

Daeron smiled sheepishly. “ I went early this morning with Khal Bharbo. He's been teaching me how to hunt for a while now.”

 

The boy looked even more ethereal at that moment, skin and hair painted golden from the fire.  He looked genuinely pleased, if not happy. These Dothraki, these _savages_ , were making him happy, making him smile more than he’s probably smiled in years. It was breathtaking and heartbreaking all in one moment. _Such is the beauty of a Targaryen._ Something twisted in Jon’s chest.  There was no refuting the soiled knight's claim, for it was true.  Assimilating was doing more good than bad.

 

“Shouldn't you be guarding the king, Ser?” Jon said without a shred of warmth. The knight paused, fixing Jon with a skeptic look.

 

“The king had no more need of my services,” the burly man responded in kind. “Besides, you lot look like good company.”

 

Jon said no more after that. He knew what that meant, and Jon could hardly blame him for wanting to switch sides. An evening with Viserys could do that to someone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler not gonna lie but at least some progress. Joan has FINALLY (finally) been kidnapped. I just kinda jumped into it because gods knows how many times you've all read about King Robert entering Winterfell and being a douchebag. I added some flashbacks to Joan's POV, and there will probably be more. Yves is also, well... Ygritte but a boy and also sometimes kinda a douche. Benjen is trying NOT to panic, but will when he realizes his little plan with Tyrion ain't gonna go so smoothly mostly because, well, you'll see. If you were reading closely in Joan's POV you will DEFINITELY see lol.
> 
> Daeron is also enjoying himself (love that for him) but yeah, the Essos chapter was kind of filler. Daeron's story should start picking up soon. In the meantime you get to see JonCon being BIG jealous while also giving you insight on what's going on. Also, more about Drogi in the next few chapters.


End file.
